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ruM^ii t" h, imnte with idbhy'* Kiji|Kjra[.t?d Vtilk ur«t wat^r niljttd. 
l<Pt hrili 2 niiiiutu.^ then jNour over the tomatoes on the tooat 
ami serve. 

Rich as Cream— cooked with Milk 

LI ERE is a dinner — cooked with milk 
—so rich your family will think 
you have cooked each dish with cream. 

The ham and potatoes have a delicate 
cream flavour that will be noticed at once. 
The curry of tomatoes, so good with ham, 
is enriched with a thick creamy sauce. 
The popovers have that pet feet ion which 
good cooks usually can obtain only with 
cream. The cieamed rice reminds you of 
the old recipes used years ago when both 
cream and butter were plentiful and cheap. 

This unusual richness and smoothness 

of flavour is obtained with Libby's Evapo- 
rated Milk, From Libby*s Evaporated 
Milk more than half the moisture has been 
removed but nothing has been added. 

Undiluted, this rich creamy milk takes 
the place of cream in coffee or cooking— at 
half the cost ol cream. When a little over 
an equal amount of water is added you 
have an unusually rich mi!fy t with the 
same consistency as fresh milk, for all 
milk uses. 

Your grocer has libby's Evaporated 
Milk or will gladly get it for you. 

Write for our free booklet "Finer Flavoured AtHk 
Dishes*'* It is full of recipes far delicious cream and 
butter saving dishes that will please the whole family. 

Libby, McNeill & Libby, Ltd. 



















An Illustrated Monthly 

Vol. LX 

Xonbou : 



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Original from 



Illustrations from Photographs. 



Illustrations by H. C. Twelvetrees. 

Illustrations by J. A. Shepherd, Harry Rountree, G. E. Studdy, and L. R. Brightwell. 


Hayden Church. 319 

43, 170, 237,318,404, 5 12 

Fenn Sherie. 524 

Illustrations by Reno Bull. 

Ernest Goodwin. 557 

BEST SAUCE, THE > William Caine. 261 

Illustrations by John Campbell. 

BETTING A MUG'S GAME? IS ..:: ., ... 102 

Yes. Bv Canon HorsUy 
No. By " The Speaker." 


Illustrations by H. M. Bateman 

BRIDE'S WALTZ, THE Holwor thy Hall 324 

Illustrations by Stanley Davis. 


Illustrations bv W. Barton Wilkinson and " Asti." 

Illustrations from Drawings bv E. T. Reed and from Photographs. 

Illustratioas by S. Abbey. 
Take these Tips by Experts and you will Play Better 

Illustrations by H. E. Crowther Smith. 

Ernest Newman. 422 

E. T. Raymond. 287 

Mrs. Baillie Reynolds. 163 


Illustrations from Photographs. 

Illustrations by Charles N. Sarka. 
DUKES. A Study in Strawberry Leaves 

Illustrations from Photographs. 

Illustrations from Photograph*. 


Henry P. Holt. 349 

E. T. Raymond. 238 

Gladys Beattxe Crozier. 379 


Illustrat ons from Composite Photographs. 

.Larimer J. Wilson. 116 

FAIRIES PHOTOGRAPHED An Epoch- Making Event .. .. Described by A. Conan Doyle. 463 

Illustrations from Photographs. 

Illustrations by A Wallis Mills. 
FROM CHRYSALIS TO BUTTERFLY Written and Illustrated by A. K. Macdonald. 477 

GHOST BOOK. THE Clarence Meiiy 17 

Illustrations by E. G Oakdale. 


Take these Tips by Experts and you will Play Better 

Illustrations by H. E- Crowther Smith. 
GREEN DEATH, THE H.C. McNcile (" Sapper ") 95, 226 

Illustrations by Chas. Crombie. 



INDEX. iii. 


HANDSOME HARRY W. W. Jacobs. 483 

Illustrations by " Robin." • 

HAUNTED HOUSES Jan Gordon. 79 

Illustrations by Chas. Crombie 
HEART OF COLUMBINE, THE Richard Fletcher 187 

Illustrations by Stanley Davis. 
HEROINES— NEW AND OLD E. T. Raymond. 529 

Illustrations by G. C. Wilmshurst, W. Smithson Broadhead, S. Abbev, W. E. Wightman, W. E 
Webster, P. B Hickling, and J. E. SutclifTe 
HOST AT No. 10, THE Garret Smith. 245 

Illustrations by E. G. Oakdale. 

IDYLL OF THE DOWNS, AN Stella Callaghan. 546 

Illustrations by Norah Schlegel. 


Illustrations from Photographs by the Author. 

LAW AND LAUGHTER. Some Legal Oddities " Chase Waxe" 405 

Illustrations by " Robin." 
LAWN-TENNIS "ENEMIES," MY ;. G L. Patterson. 142 

Illustrations from Photographs. 
LEGACY, THE Mrs. Henry Dudeney 396 

Illustrations by W. Hatherell, R.I. 
LIFE THAT CAME TO FLOWER, A .. .. M. L.C. PickthalL 203 

Illustrations by W. Hatherell, R.I. 

LITTLE PATIENT, THE From the French oj G Courteline. 25 

LOSER'S END, THE Hylton Cleaver. 267 

Illustrations by Chas. Grave. 
LOSER WHO WON. THE .. ~ Sydney Horler. 56 

Illustrations by E. F. Sherie. 


Illustrations from Photographs. 
MAN'S PEACE OF MIND * Hylton Cleaver. 132 

Illustrations by S. Seymour Lucas. 
MAN WITH HIS HAND IN HIS POCKET, THE H. C. McNeile (" Sapper"). 4 93 

Illustrations by Chas. Crombie. 
MODERN MAGIC F. Britten Austin 513 

Illustrations by W. Hatherell, R.L 
"MOTHER'S KNEE" .. .. P. G Wodehouse. 428 

Illustrations bv A. Wallis Mills. 

MR. CRAY'S ADVENTURES E. PhiUips Oppenheim. 

L— The Don vers Case 371 

II.— The Two Philanthropists 469 

Illustrations bv S. Abbey. 
MR FLIXTHEART * Roland Per twee. 292 

Illustrations by Balliol Salmon. 

NIGHT CALL. A. G Leslie Crump. 453 

Illustrations by Sydney Seymour Lucas. 

ORDEAL BY WATER. THE Gilbert Collins. 51 

Illustrations bv Wilmot Lunt. 

Illustrations by H. C. Twelvetrees. 


Illustrations from Drawings and Photographs. 
-PAVING THE WAY FOR MABEL" P. G Wodehouse. 65 

Illustrations bv A Wallis MilK 
PAYMENT ON ACCOUNT, A H. C. McN cite (" Sapper ") 32 

Illustrations bv W. Smithson Broadhead. 
PENDULUM, THE SIDERIC. A Step into the Unknown . .. ,,,,,-^ir ^r-*>-i m • •• 180 

Illustration from a Photograph 





Arthur Crabb. 385 

.Henry E. Dudeney. 88, 184, 276, 368, 452, 5&> 


m Illustrations by W. R. S. Stott. 

Illustrations from Drawings. 

Illustrations by G. E. Bestall and from Diagrams 
PYJAMA MAN, THE Albert Payson Terhune. 171 

Frustrations by E. G. Oakdale. 

" REGULAR , FELLER, A " W. Douglas Newton. 147 

Illustrations by W. R. S. Stott. 
ROOM AT THE HERMITAGE, A P. G. Wodehouse. 210 

Illustrations by A. Wal is Mills 

SAVAGE SWELLS. Finery for Natives Hayden Church 221 

Illustrations by E. T. Reed. 
SECOND CHANCE, THE Kathlyn Rhodes. 3 

Qlustrations by Norah Schlegel. 
SEQUENCE OF DANGER, A .. .. James Bart. 279 

Illustrations by A. Gilbert. 
SHE WHO CAME BACK F. Britten Austin. 358 

Illustrations by W. R. S. Stott. 
SIDERIC PENDULUM, THE. A New Step into the Unknown . . 180 

Illustration from a Photograph. 

Illustrations from Photographs 
SNAKES ALIVE! ... Crosbie Garslin. 569 

Illustrations by W. Heath Robinson. 

SPORTS, IMPROVING OUR. Some Suggestions by Our Artists ~ 89,460 

STUDIO "FAKES" Chas. Crombie. 44 

Illustrations from Drawings and Photographs. 
SUNDERED HEARTS ~ P. G. Wodehouse. 536 

.Illustrations by F H. Shepard 


Illustrations by John Campbell. 

Illustrations from Composite Photographs 

Illustrations by E. G. Oakdale. 

Illustrations by E. F. Sherie. 

. Barry Pain. 556,573 

Latimer J.Wilson. 116 

..L.J. Beeston. 31 1 

. .Royal Brown. 410 


IV.— An Old Story Re-told . . 

Illustrations by Howard Elcock* 
V.-*The Absolute Proof 

Illustrations from Photographs 

A. Conan Dovle. 



Illustrations by A. Wallis Mills. 

Illustrations by W. Smithson Broadhead. 

Illustrations by W. R. S. Stott. 

Illustration from a Photograph 

Illustrations by Wilton Williams. 

P. G. Wodehouse 121 

Stella Callaghan. 106 

Ethel M. DeU. 502 


E. T. Raymond. 26 


Illustrations by W. Smithson Broadhead. 

E. F. Benson. 446 


I *vlh Coooff Original from 


1 A 




July, 1920 

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Original from 



[See page 4.) 

by Google 

Original from 




T is rather an odd 
situation, isn't it ? ' 
Amory looked at the 
two men who sat at the table in more 
or less uncomfortable attitudes, and his voice 
was grim/" In there" — he pointed to the 
"chick" of beads which hung over the 
opening to an J inner room — "lies a dead 
man : killed bv ode of us three. And only 
that one kno\$|->which of us is the" — he 
paused — " the riaprderer." 

"One moment, Amory." Captain Ross, 
who had been siting scribbling absently on 
a sheet of paper, raised his head suddenly. 
* Are you sure you're speaking correctly 
when you say Colonel Chalmers has been " — 
there was the same pause before the word — 
4 murdered ? " 

""Yes., Amory — are you sure ? " Dick 
Thornley . . spoke eagerly, hurriedly. 
" Mightn't the Colonel have shot himself ? 
He — ^ve don't know what private worries 
h& had, and he — he looked queer when he 
capae in." 

For a moment Amory's grey eyes rested 
on the boy's twitching f ace ; and young 
Thornley paled before the other's gaze. 

" Don't look at me like that, Amory ! I 
know — I know you fellows think I did it. 
But I didn't — before God you're wrong. I 
— I never did it ! " 

" No one has suggested that you did, 
Dicky." Ross spoke quickly. " As a matter 
of fact, it is not yet certain that anyone 
killed the Colonel. He might conceivably 
have shot himself." 

" No." Amory's voice was decisive. 
" Colonel Chalmers was killed — shot with a 
revolver — mine, by the way — which the 
murderer then carried over to the big sofa 
and hid under a cushion. At least " — he 
paused — " I took it from there not twenty 
minutes ago." 

" You found it ? But what made you 
look there ? " There was curiosity, but as 
yet no suspicion, in Ross's voice. 

" I was a bit taken aback, as we all were " 
— he spoke casually — " on finding what had 

VoL lx.-1. 



happened ; and I sat down 
for a second to pull myself 
together. And in so doing " 
— he smiled rather frigidly — " I felt the 

" He couldn't have put it there himself ? " 

' ' No .* Quite impossible. Death must have 
been instantaneous — and in any case, why 
should Colonel Chalmers commit' suicide ? 
He hsSd everything he wanted : a delightful 
home, money, promotion, and "—he paused 
— " and a daughter whom he adored. No, 
Ross. Chalmers wasn't the man to lose all 
these by a revolver-bullet." 

At the mention of the dead man's daughter 
both the other men's faces had changed 
oddly. Into Ross's square-chinned, blue- 
eyed, rather obstinate face came the look of 
the man who, having failed to attain his 
heart's desire, has determined to hide that 
failure by a resolute composure, a dogged 
cheerfulness which shall admit no possibility 
of defeat ; and he unconsciously drew him- 
self up and set hi? lips together as though 
to prove his indifference to the subject. 

But Dick Thornley, being younger and 
more undisciplined, showed all too pla'nly 
what the mention of the girl meant to him ; 
and he flushed hotly, and his eyes flashed as 
Amory spoke so calmly of Miss Chalmers, as 
though he would fain have' forbidden the 
speaker to take her name upon his lips. 

How the name affected Amory himself 
no one was at liberty to observe ; and he 
was only too grateful to his' companions 
for their absorption in their own private 

Presently Ross said, rather formally : — 

" Well, since you are so certain that 
Colonel Chalmers met his death at the hands 
of one of us " — Dick started nervously — 
" what steps do you propose to take to clear 
up the matter ? Wouldn't it be well to 
review the whole position from the begin- 
ning, and see if we can elicit any facts likely 
to be of value ? " 

" Quite so." Amory's voice was non- 
committal. " But before we start let's have 


The Second Chance 

a drink. Dick, there's a siphon over there, 
and here's the whisky." 

Thus requested, Dick Thornley rose from 
his seat and crossed the room to the shelf 
on which the siphon stood. He brought it 
back slowly, and the other men noted how 
his hand shook as he set it down, clumsily, 
on the table. But the tragedy of the after- 
noon was enough to account for shaken 
nerves ; and after all there was a certain 
pallor, an unusual tension, about each of the 
three men who were implicated in that 

" Thanks, Dick." Amory held out the 
whisky bottle. " Help yourselves. I feel I 
can do with a stiff peg myself." 

When the glasses were filled he began to 
speak again, looking ahead of him with 
expressionless eyes. 

" But— but- 


'O begin with, this is our bungalow, 
Ross, yours and mine. Dick here 
dropped in to tiffin to-day, and after 
that, as it was confoundedly hot, and we none 
of us had any business on hand, we agreed 
to have a laze until tea-time, and then go 
down to the club. That's so, isn't it ? " 

" Yes. And just as we were settling down, 
in came Colonel Chalmers, looking very 
fagged, and said he didn't feel up to much, 
and would like a rest before going on to some 
show or other to meet his daughter." 

11 And so you advised him to go into your 
room and lie down for a bit." 

" Just so, Dick. He agreed, saying his 
head ached ; and we proceeded to settle 
ourselves as we chose. You, Dick, sat on 
here, smoking. Ross, you went into your 
room, through mine ; and I went, as usual, 
on to the veranda." 

" The result being," said Ross, quietly, 
" that there was no entrance into the 
Colonel's room except through one of the 
two rooms in which Dick and I were sitting, 
and " 

" And through the long door opening on 
to the veranda where I was sitting. That 
sums up the situation as far as we are con- 
cerned. Yet someone did get in ; for when 
we rushed in, roused by the sound of a shot, 
we found the Colonel dead — shot through the 

Dick Thornley set down his glass noisily. 

" Of course someone got in. I — I'm certain 
no one came my way. I was awake all the 
time." He stopped, bit his lips, then 
hurried on : "At least, perhaps I was asleep, 
and if so someone might have passed me." 

" No, Dick, that won't wash." Ross spoke 
kindly, though his worried eyes belied his 
smile. " How often have you lamented the 
that you can't sleep in the daytime I 
ick you to keep awake on the hottest 

by Google 

" The boy began to stam- 
mer out something, but Amory stopped him 
with a gesture. 

" Never mind that, Dick. You say no 
one came past you. Nor did anyone cross 
the veranda." 

" How do you know ? You might easily 
have closed your eyes for a minute." 

" I might," returned Amory, dryly. " But 
it so happened that I did not. You see, I 
was writing a letter — an important letter." 

" Then I'm the only one left ? " Ross's 
quiet voice was unruffled. " And when I 
tell you that I slept peacefully until roused 
by the sound of a shot, you'll agree with me 
that the whole thing is most mysterious." 

" Well, what are we going to do about it ? " 
Dick reached for the siphon and squirted 
some soda, shakily, into his glass. 

" Do ? " Amory looked at him rather 
oddly. " What can we do ? It seems to me 
that we are at a standstill." 

" My God, Amory 1 " Dick set down the 
glass and sat glowering at his host. " How 
can you speak so calmly 1 Don't you see 
what a devil of a xness we're in ? The 
Colonel comes here, to this bungalow, to 
spend a quiet hour or two, and he is murdered 
in his sleep. There is no one here but us 
three, the servants are all away — gone off 
to some tomasha or other — and yet there's 
a crime committed. Well, it puts us all in a 
pretty serious hole, doesn't it ? " 

" Of course it does." Ross took up the 
challenge. " And for that reason, because 
one of us is guilty and two are innocent, the 
guilty one must speak." 

" Quite so," said Amory, quietly. " But 
which is the guilty one ? " 

Ross shrugged his shoulders and threw his 
half-smoked cigarette irritably into the ash- 

" Which of us, eh ? Well, that remains 
to be seen. But — I can quite understand 
that things look black against me. You both 
know what a devil of a temper I have, and 
it's all over the place by now that the Colonel 
and I quarrelled last night — at the club. 
Oh, it was over the merest trifle — a personal 
matter, but we both got hot over it, and I 
admit I spoke a good deal more freely than 
I had any right to do." 

" Yes, yes, I heard you'd quarrelled." 
Dick spoke eagerly. " Some fellow I met 
this morning told me about the row — and 
he said you were in no end of a rage after- 
wards, and letting off steam against the 
Colonel like anything." 

"I'd had some drink by that time," said 
Ross, dryly. " And no one pays attention 
to a drunken man's ravings. But I realize 
that it puts me in a fix, for quite half-a-dozen 
fellows heard me letting myself go after the 


Kathlyn Rhodes 

" What about me ? " Dick sounded defiant. 
" I was up before the Colonel this morning 
for one of his everlasting wiggings. Every- 
one knows he hated me, because when I first 
came out Miss Chalmers was kind to me, and 
he didn't like it. You both know how down 
he's always been on me, bullyragging me 
about every little thing." 

" Nonsense, Dick I " To his surprise 
Amory spoke sharply. " The Colonel was a 
bit strict, but he was always just ; and no 
one could resent his censure. And you know 
you are a bit slack at times — oh, over non- 
essentials ! " — he saw the boy's rage mount- 
ing — " and no CO. likes to see his subs 
running into debt and spending too much 
time over racing and cards." 

" I know one thing ! " Dick spoke pas- 
sionately. " He wasn't fair to me — just 
because he knew I was in love with his 
daughter ! That was why he was always 
beastly to me. Thought I wasn't good 
enough, I suppose, and p'r'aps I wasn't ; 
but I can tell you his sneers — oh, in that 
beastly polite voice of his ! — were jolly hard 
to bear, and I only put up with it because — 

because " His anger fairly choked him, 

and he stopped short. 

" Don't be a fool, Dick ! " This time it 
was Ross who answered him, curtly enough. 
" We'll keep Miss Chalmers's name out of 
this, and raving like that doesn't do you any 

" No. And time's passing." Amory 
glanced at his wrist- watch. " We can't 
hush this thing up much longer. But we 
must find out who shot the Colonel. Perhaps 
there are extenuating circumstances." 

" Oh, I know what you mean ! " Dick's 
eyes blazed. " You've made up your mind 
it's I because there was always a feud 
between me and the Colonel. But you're 
wrong, and it's simply cowardly to try to 
bully me into saying it was I who did it ! " 

" The cowardly deed was the murder, 
Dick." Amory spoke coldly. " The brave 
deed will be the owning up " 

" Owning up ! " Dick sprang from his 
chair and stood opposite the other man, his 
fists clenched, his whole body shaking from 
head to foot. " If you're so keen on owning 
up, why don't "you own up yourself ? Why 
are you to be above suspicion ? Ross here says 
he quarrelled with the Colonel last night — 
there's a motive for you ! I was in trouble 
with him this morning — there's my motive ! 
No suspicion is to rest on you, although it was 
your revolver that killed him ! Why not ? 
I ask you that ! Why shouldn't you have 
killed the Colonel just as much as Ross or I ? " 

There was a pause before Amory replied 
to this challenge; and for a moment Ross's 
blue eyes searched his face with, for the first 
timo, a hint of suspicion in their depth 

in their depths. 


" Quite so, Dick." Amory spoke at last, 
quietly. " Why shouldn't I have killed the 
Colonel ? True, I'd no apparent motive, 
but no one knows my business well enough 
to swear I wasn't at loggerheads secretly 
with him. So what if I say that I did kill 
Colonel Chalmers ? It was my revolver, 
after all, that did the deed." 

" No, no, Amory." Ross spoke impul- 
sively. " You didn ; t do it. That I'll swear." 

" But don't you hear what he says ? " 
Dick's eyes shone with excitement. " He 
says he did — or as good as says so, anyhow ! 
And so — and so we must help him to escape ! " 
He looked round him eagerly. " Come, 
Ross, let's plan how to get him away. We 
can keep the thing dark for hours yet, and he 
can have a good start " 

•• No, Dick." Amory's voice was quiet, 
and he looked the boy squarely in the eyes. 
'I'm not going to — escape." 

" Not escape ! But why not — in Heaven's 
name, why not ? " 

Still looking the other straight in the* face 
Amory spoke quietly ; and to Ross, who 
listened uncomprehendingly, his voice was 
oddly, almost terribly impressive. 

" Because for the murderer there is no 
escape, Dick. He may get away for a time, 
but do you think he is ever really a free man 
again ? No. There's never an hour in the 
day that he doesn't feel a ghostly hand on 
his shoulder, that he doesn't expect to hear 
a voice in his ear saying, ' Thou art the 
man ! ' There's never a night passes but he 
enacts again in his dreams the tragedy which 
has branded him with the brand of Cain. 
When he is alone he feels that he must go 
mad or die — when he is in the midst of his 
fellow-men he is seized with an almost un- 
controllable impulse to rise* and shout his 
ghastly secret to the world. Night and day 
the torture goes on and on ; and at last he 
feels that death would have been a thousand 
times more merciful than this hell to which 
his own cowardice has condemned him." 

" Amory — for God's sake " It was 

Ross who spoke, hoarsely ; but with his eyes 
fixed upon the boy, who cowered before him 
in an attitude of mortal terror. Amory went 
on spealdng : — 

11 That's why it's no use attempting to 
escape, Dick. When a man has committed 
a crime like murder there's no way out— but 
one. Other men may have a second chance, 
thank God for it ! But the man who kills 
his brother is accursed. Sooner or later the 
truth is bound to come out — and pray God 
it's not too late." 

But now Dick had fallen into a chair and 
was hiding his face behind his shaking hands ; 
and it was Ross who said, very quietly : — 

" Too late ? Amory, what do you mean ? " 

"I meaugntp-nal Emory's own face was 


The Second Chance 

ghastly, his brow beaded with drops of 
sweat — " pray God that no man calls upon 
his brother to pay the debt that's his ! For 
that is the unforgivable sin, Dick." 

He went slowly across to the huddled 
figure in the chair ; and then, while Ross's 
blue eyes watched him tensely, he laid one 
hand on the boy's shoulder. 

" Dick, are you going to let another man 
pay your debt ? " . ■- 

Suddenly Dick Thornley shook off the 
heavy hand, and sprang to his feet with 
blazing eyes. 

"My God, Amory, don't go on ! I did it — 
of course I did- it — but I'll swear before God 
it' was an accident ! I never meant to kill 
him — God knows I never meant it ! It was 
an accident, I tell you — the beastly thing 
went off in my hand. 1 only meant to 
frighten him " 

" You— you did it, Dick ? " Now that 
the truth was out Ross knew he had suspected 
it all along. 

"Yes. I'll tell you how it was." He 
seemed to find in speech relief from the 
terror which so plainly overwhelmed him. 
" You know how I was up before him this 
morning. He was on about — about every- 
thing — cards, wine, racing. You know I got 
into a mess with a moneylender in the Bazar 
last week, and he'd heard about it " 

He paused, gasping for breath ; but in a 
moment he was off again wildly. 

" He said I'd have to send in my papers. 
1 begged him to give me another chance. 
I said I'd been a fool, but I'd do better. 
He wouldn't listen — said I was no credit to 
the regiment— and yet you fellows know I 
loved the regiment — and I meant to do 
better " 

" But that was this morning, Dick " 

The interruption came from Ross. 

" Yes. But when you left me in here this 
afternoon, and he was in the other room, I — I 
went in to beg him to give me another chance. 
I swore I'd do better, I'd turn over a new leaf. 
But he Wouldn't listen. He said — oh, vile 
things "—he flushed scarlet at the memory 
of the words which had indeed stung his 
young manhood — " and at last I — I snatched 
up the revolver from the table and pointed it 
at him ... he was sitting up on the 
bed, and I — I was seeing red by then, but I 
never meant — before God I never meant to 
do it; But the beastly thing went off, and 
he fell back — dead — and I flung the revolver 
on to the sofa and covered it up and had just 
time to rush out so that I could come in again 
with you others." * 

"Dick, as • God's your witness" — Ross 
spoke earnestly — " is that the truth ? " 

Is God's my witness, yes ! " He raised 

young face, and both men knew 

jken truly at last. " But — there's 

digitized by V^iOOQlC 


no help for me, I suppose ! I did it, and I'll 
have to bear the brunt. But-^-oh my God, 
what will my mother say— what will she do 
when I— when I'm — hanged — '■ — " 

" Shut up, Dick ! " Atn6ry spoke almost 
brutally in an attempt to check the boy's 
rising hysteria. " Perhaps there may be a 
way out. Don't speak for a moment — let 
me-think what we can do " 

" You mean " Dick turned to him 

eagerly, desperately. " You will help me — 
give mea chance ? " 

" But how, Amory ! How's it to be done ! " 
Ross spoke impulsively, and Amory made a 
gesture of impotence. 

" I don't know — yet I But we must do 
something, and — good God, what's that ! " 

THERE was a sound of hurrying foot- 
steps, a call in a man's voice; and 
the next moment Captain Nicholls, the 
regimental doctor, burst into the room 

The three men turned to him with one 
accord ; but before anyone could demand an 
explanation of this sudden entrance he broke 
into voluble questioning. 

* Any of you fellows know where Colonel 
Chalmers is ? Is he here, by any chance ? 
Or has anyone seen him ? " 

" Colonel Chalmers ? " By common con- 
sent it was left for Ambry to reply. " What 
do you want with him, Nicholls ? " 

" I want him because — I say, do you know 
where he is ? " He mopped his hot forehead 
with a handkerchief. "I've had the very 
devil of a chase, and a shock, too! But if 
he's not here " 

He paused for a moment, his keen eyes 
riveted on Dick Thornley's ghastly face, 

" I say, young fellow, what's wrong with 
you ? You look pretty queer — are you ill ? " 

" No, sir." By a mighty effort Dick pulled 
himself together and spoke steadily. " But 
— do you want Colonel Chalmers ? He — 
isn't he at home ? " 

" No, he isn't." He rapped out the words 
abruptly. " And I want to find him — 
quickly. Don't any of you know where he 

" No." Amory spoke quietly. " At least 
— why do you want to find him so badly, 
doctor ? And — why should you expect to 
find him — here ? " 

" I want him because — because " For 

the first time the doctor appeared to feel 
something unusual in the atmosphere which 
enveloped the three men. He looked from 
one to the other with a suddenly awakened 
interest ; and it did not need his trained 
psychological sense to realize that all of them 
had lately passed through some extraordinary 
emotional crisis which had left its trace in 
each of the three faces— though it was U 


Kathlyn Rhodes 

Look here 1 ' He spoke shortly. ' 1 ask you a perfectly simple question, and you 
all look like a lot of dummies. What's wirn;. eh?*" 

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uii iar i i«j 



The Second Chance 

Dick Thornley's that he read the fullest 
ravages of an apprehensive dread which was 
hard to understand. 

" Look here." He spoke shortly. " There's 
something here I don't catch on to. I ask 
you a perfectly simple question, and you all 
look like a lot of dummies. What's wrong, 
eh ? Amory, you're a sensible fellow. 7s 
there something wrong ? " 

For a moment even Amory's nerve failed 
him. He did not know how best to treat 
the situatioi* ; but while he hesitated Ross's 
quiet voice broke in. 

" Perhaps there is something wrong, 
doctor. But first, let us know what is the 
mystery concerning your desire to find 
Colonel Chalmers." 

The doctor looked round him again, and it 
was easy to see that he was considering what 
course of action to pursue. But time was 
passing ; and he made up his mind to speak 

" Look here, you fellows, I'll tell you 
something ; but it is to go no farther. I 
want to find the Colonel because I'm afraid 
that unless I do there will be a tragedy." 

" A tragedy ? " Dick Thornley echoed 
the words in amazement. 

" Yes. The facts are these. This morning 
Colonel Chalmers came to consult me about 
his health, about which it seems he had been 
uneasy for some time. To cut a long story 
short, I found that he was in the grip of an 
incurable disease, could not live more than a 
few months at the outside, and would suffer 
excruciatingly most of the time. I told him 
the truth — he would have it ; and he 
thanked me quietly and went out. An hour 
ago I got this note, which by a postscript I 
find should not have been delivered till 

He brought a crumpled paper out of his 
pocket and unfolded it. 

" In this note he tells me that on thinking 
matters out he could not bring himself to 
face the inevitable end, and so he " — the 
doctor's voice faltered — " he intended to — 
to take matters into his own hands. He 
didn't want his daughter to know, of course ; 
so he was going to try to make it appear an 

" But — how was he going to do it ? " The 
question was Amory's. 

" Shoot himself in the jungle somewhere, 

Through the minds of the listening men 
flashed the same thought. He had come 
here, to the bungalow, to rest a while before 
setting out on the last tragic journey of his 
gallant life ; and here, at the hands of a 

ssionate boy, he had won the release for 
" Jie had longed, with no discredit to his 
ic soul. 

" — the doctor's voice went on, 

a little urgently now — " you see how im- 
portant it is for me to find Colonel Chalmers 
at once." 

There was a silence, during which Amory 
and Ross, at least, thought hard and furiously. 
But before either of them could speak, Dick 
Thornley stepped forward slowly. 

" If you want Colonel Chalmers, sir, he is — 
in there." He pointed to the inner room. 

" In there ? " The doctor stared at him. 
" But — what do you mean ? If he's there, 

why doesn't he come " He stopped 

suddenly. Then : " Good God, you don't 
mean to say he's done it already — that I'm 
too late ? " 

Between Amory and Ross there passed a 
look of quick mutual comprehension. Then 
the latter detained the doctor, who was 
moving towards the '' chick " of beads, with 
a hand on his arm. 

" Wait a minute, doc. Have a drink 
before you go in. It's been a shock, and 
you're upset. And you know " — he was 
filling a glass as he spoke — " there's no 
hurry — now." 

And Dick Thornley, his face like chalk, 
was hearkening to Amory's whispered in- 

" Listen, Dick. Go out on to the veranda, 
and into the room, and put the revolver on 
the floor by the bed, as though it had dropped. 
Quickly, mind, and don't bungle." He sank 
his voice still lower. " Remember, Dick — it's 
the second chance — and it's up to you to 
make the best of it." 

Without a word the boy disappeared on to 
the veranda ; and Amory turned to the others 
with an explanatory word. 

" Thought I heard someone coming. 
Better wait a second and be sure we're" 

He paused, as though listening ; and as 
the doctor set down the empty glass Dick 
re-entered the room through the long door 
opening on to the veranda. 

" No one there." He spoke rather 
hoarsely, but after all agitation was natural 
in the circumstances ; and Amory turned to 
Nicholls at once. 

" Will you come and see him now ? Yes " 
— he was holding aside the bead curtain and 
did not look at the other man — " shot 
himself in there. Like a fool I'd left my 
revolver out, and I suppose " — he hesitated — 
" the temptation was too great." 

When the doctor and Amory had dis- 
appeared, Ross turned to Dick. 

" Dick." His voice was solemn. " You 
have got off well — but for God's sake let 
this be a lesson to you. Remember, it's only 
because you swore it was an accident that 
we're lying like this, to save you." 

"I'll not forget, sir." The boy's w f 
trembled, but Ross was satisfied * 

ay LiOOglC 

Original from 

s -.A 



Kathlyn Rhodes 

neither of them spoke again until the doctor 
and Amory re-entered the room. 

" Stone dead, of course, poor chap/' 
Nicholls looked preternaturally grave. " See 
here, this must be hushed up as much as 
possible. Luckily it's known his heart was a 
bit rocky, and there is no heed to let out how 
he died. I will certify that the cause of 
death was heart failure, consequent on the 
shock of discovering, suddenly, the seriousness 
of his condition ; and I don't anticipate any 
difficulty. The only man we must take into 
our confidence is his own servant, Peters, 
who's been with him thirty years ; and he'll 
manage everything satisfactorily." 

" There's no doubt he did it himself ? " 
Ross asked the question stolidly, and Captain 
Nicholls looked at him rather sharply. 

" No reasonable doubt. The shot was 
fired at very close quarters, and the revolver 
was on the ground where it had dropped from 
his hand. But, of course, if you are not 
satisfied " 

" But I am." He spoke apologetically. 
" Fergive me, doc. This has been a bit of 
a shock to us all, you know. And I am 
wondering who is to break it to Miss 

" To Rosamund, eh ? " Nicholls bit his 
lip. " I'd forgotten the girl. But she 
mustn't learn the truth. It's bad enough for 
her to know her father is dead " 

*' For God's sake, sir, be quiet ! " It was 
Dick who hissed the words in his ear ; and 
when, startled, Nicholls swung round to face 
him he understood the speaker's meaning all 
too plainly. 

FOR there, in the doorway leading to the 
veranda, stood Rosamund Chalmers, 
and the white gown she wore was not 
less devoid of colour than was her charming 
face. For a moment she said nothing, but 
stood staring at them all with dilated blue 
eyes and parted lips. Then, as still the 
silence held, she made one step forward and 
asked the fatal question which each man 

" Is my father here ? Captain Amory " — 
it was to him, finally, she appealed — " has 
Daddy been here this afternoon ? I — I'm 
feeling anxious about him." 

He moved towards her and nerved himself 
to face her bravely. 

" Why are you feeling anxious, Miss 
Chalmers ? And why should your father be — 
here ? " 

" I'm anxious because he didn't come in to 
lunch." Her blue eyes roved from one face 
to another as she spoke, yet came back to 
rest on Amory in the end. " He saw Captain 
Nicholls this morning, didn't he ? " She 
appealed to him, but did not wait for a 

Digitized by dOOgle 

" And when he came in, for a moment, he 
said he had had bad news — that he was ill — ^ 
and he looked so queer, so grey, just as he did 
when he had a heart attack — and naturally I 
felt anxious. And when he didn't come in 
again, I began to wonder " 

She broke off again, as though something 
in the men's silence struck her as sinister ; 
and turning to Captain Nicholls she ques- 
tioned him fearfully. 

" You thought Daddy was ill, didn't you ? 
But it wasn't — it wasn't he you were talking 
of as I came in just now ? " 

" Were we talking of someone ? " He did 
not know how to parry this direct attack. 

" Yes. But you said," she put her hand 
on his arm imploringly, " you said that 
someone was dead — someone's father. You 
— you didn't mean my father, did you ? " 

In his silence, in the silence of them all, 
she read the answer ; and for a second she 
swayed beneath the blow. Then, with the 
courage which came from a long line of 
fighting ancestors, she stood erect before the 
four men and spoke calmly. 

" You mean Daddy is dead ? But how — 
when " 

" Colonel Chalmers died — in that room — a 
couple of hours ago, Miss Chalmers." Amory 
answered her, " He had had bad news about 
himself, and — you know his heart was weak, 
that a shock was bound to be disastrous ? 
Well, it was too much for him ; and his 
heart gave out beneath the strain." 

Quietly, convincingly, he lied ; and the 
girl accepted his story unquestioningly. 
Only she turned even paler than before, and 
her blue eyes filled with a look of dreadful 
desolation which wrung the hearts of the 
three men who, each in his own way, loved 

" Then," her voice was low, " I'm all alone 
now ! But," she turned to Amory, " this is 
your bungalow, isn't it ? And — there will be 
arrangements to make — may I go in there 
and see — him ? " 

" Don't worry about that, Miss Chalmers," 
he said, quickly. " We will make all the 
arrangements, and I think — I think you 
should wait to see your father until we — 
we bring him home." 

" Yes, that will be much the best thing 
to do," said Nicholls, quickly. " You had 
better go home now, Miss Chalmers, and one 
of the ladies of the Station will come and look 
after you for a bit. How did you get here — 
you walked, in all this heat ? " 

" I've got my pony cart here, Miss 
Chalmers ! " It was Dick who spoke, pres ing 
forward, eagerly. " Let me take you home — 
please ! " 

He ventured to lay a hand on her arm, but 
she turned to him gently, with a refusal on 
her lips. 



The Second Chance 

" No t please, Dick. I — I'd rather go 
alone. I — I want to be alone ! " 

" lt J s getting late, Miss Chalmers." Ross's 
quiet voice followed her impulsive cry, * 1 I 
don't think you must go alone. May I take 
you ? The car can 
be round in a 

For a moment 
she stood among 
the men, an ap- 
pealing, sorrowf u I 
figure in her white 
gown ; and at the 
moment even 
Nicholls, confirmed 
bachelor though he 
was, told himself it 
was small wonder 
that all the men in 
the Station were in 
lovewith Rosamund 
Chal mers, He 
wondered, with a 
trace of cynicism, 
which of these 
three, if any, was 
the favoured lover ; 
and even as the 
wonder lingered in 
bis mind he knew 
the answer to liis 
own unuttered 

For Rosamund 
did not heed Cap- 
tain Ross's offer — " 
did not, or so it 
seemed, even hear 
it. It was Amoiy 
to whom she turned, 
with the instinct of 
the loved one who 
knows she may call 
upon her lover ; 
and as her blue eyes 
sought his face, he 
started forward as 
though she had 
spoken to him. 

"I may take 
you home, Rosa- 
mund ? " He did 
not notice his use 

of her name — a use made familiar to him 
through liis thoughts of her ; but the others 
noted it ; and Dick Thornley turned away 
with a face grown suddenly old. 

Into Ross's blue eyes there sprang a look 
of defeat ; but he said nothing, only fumbled 
mechanically with his cigarette-case ; and it 
was left to Nicholls to break the silence 
which followed Amory's words. 

Yes r take Miss Chalmers home, Amory." 

Digitized by d< 

He put his hand on the girl's arm and gently 
piloted her towards the door. If And I'll 
ring up Mrs. Farey " — her best friend in the 
Station — " and ask her to drop in presently/' 
Without demur Rosamund accepted the 

Vm anxious because Daddy 
to wonder - She broke 

men's silence struck 

position ; and although she looked in the 
direction of the other men, murmured a 
vague word of farewell, they knew she did 
not really see them. Only Amory, the man 
she loved, was real to her in this moment of 
stress ; and Ross, at least, accepted the 
position with a quiet acquiescence wliich was 
not far removed from heroism. 

When they had gone, followed down the 
veranda steps by the doctor, Ross turned 


Kathlyn Rhodes 


slowly to Dick Thomley, who had fallen into 
a chair and was hiding his face in his hands, 
" Dick ! " At the tone the boy looked up, 
and his eyes were haunted. " Remember, 
you've got to make good — now," 

haggard young face there flashed the light 
of a great resolve* 

M By God, Kgss, you're right ! " There was 
a ring of hope in his voice. ** I J U do it 1 
I'll make good yet ! *' 

didn't come in to lunch. And I began 
off again, ai though something in the 
her at sinister," 

" Make good — me ? " He stammered 
rather than spoke, 4i But how can I make 
good ?" 

"You can, Dick, and you must/' Ross's 
tone was bracing. " God in His mercy 
has given you a second chance, and it's 
your part to make the best you can of 

For a moment the boy said nothing- Then, 
suddenly, he sprang to his feet, and into his 

by LiOOglC 

" See that you do, Dick," Ross put his 
hand for a second on the other's shoulder. 
" Remember, few men who do what yon have 
done get the opportunity to make good. 
But you have got it ; and if you're a man at 
all, Dick ThomleVj you'll go home and thank 
God with all your soul that He has given you 
a second chance/* 


" I will/' said Dick Thornley, humbly, 




Go/)? or 



A LTHOUGH practically every English- 
TV man and every Englishwoman 
_/ m^ ' plays some game, on which a 
great amount of time and money 
is expended, very few ever attain to any- 
thing like proficiency. Why ? Not from 
lack of keenness or the desire to succeed, 
but simply through ignorance of the methods 
by which their standard of play can be im- 
proved. Of actual coaching by professionals 
the average amateur in this country fights 
shy for obvious reasons, not unnaturally 
preferring to learn rather by example than 
precept. In order, therefore, that devotees 
of our principal summer games may improve 
themselves along the right lines, The Strand 
Magazine has induced leading players with 
world-wide reputations at lawn tennis, cricket. 

Digitized by CaOOglC 

golf, and croquet to advise iia 
readers, in a few pregnant sentences, 
just how and in what manner they 
can improve- A careful perusal and 
close application of the suggestions appear- 
ing in the symposium which appears below 
cannot fail to have the desired effect 



(Ex- Doubles Champion.) 

To the player who wishes to improve 
at lawn tennis I would suggest a careful 
consideration of the following " fourteen 
points '* : — 

(i) Make sure that the foundations, i.e., 
" grip " of the racket, stance for the various 
shots, etc.,, etc*, are correct. 

(2) Keep your eye on the ball— not tho 
court — ;when striking* 



■A; A 















Tips by Sporting Experts. 13 

{3) Learn to put the necessary weight into RANDOLPH LYCETT. 

each stroke at the moment of impact. ,.,*,,. 

(4) In driving swing your racket at the (Mixed Doubles Champion of the World on grass 
ball; do not "jab." and wood.) 

(5) Follow through, One of the first things you are told at golf 

(6) Keep on your toes, so that a quick and is " Keep your eye on the ball/' and thii 
easv move can be made in the direction your axiom applies just as much to lawn tennis, 
opponent lias hit the ball. Failure to watch the ball closely frequently 

(7) Keep a good length, (This is most causes the stroke to be incorrectly timed, 
important.) with the consequent loss of direction and 

(8) Learn to *' kill " and not pat anything pace. Accuracy, particularly in a player's 
overhead, early stages, is more to be sought after than 

(9) Get an old player or pro. to tell you hard hitting, which is so often of an erratic 
what you do wrong. If necessary, take a character. Young players would be well 
few lessons. advised to devote time to developing their 

{10} Never forget that it takes more like backhand shot, as this is usually a very 

twelve years than twelve lessons to make a apparent weakness. Much good can be 

player, accomplished in this direction by hitting 

(ii) Never play with people worse than against a wall with a line marked to corres- 

vourself. pond with the height of the net. Play in as 

(i2j Study -*" """ and do not 

science of you. The 

game by wa1 players of 

ing good pla] npetifcton is 

and note 1 ou to antici- 

they get t strokes. It 

effects. cultivate a 

(13) Enter H should be 
as many torn air and hit 
ments as p< retching up. 
ble. They }f the racket 
welcome yoi act pace will 
the handicap 

(14) Pract 
Practise I 
tise ! 





by L^OOglC 


Tips by Sporting Experts. 


1910, I9L1. 

(Lady Champion in 1903, I904 r 1906, 
1913, and 19 14-) 

I often think that the girl who is anxious 
to improve at lawn tennis — and we all are— 
goes to 
work in 
the wrong 
way. As 
I wrote in 
my book, 
*' the great 
point to 
when yon are 
practising i s 
not that the 
game must be 
won, but that all 
your weak strokes 
must be improved," 
Therefore tackle your 
weak points doggedly, 
taking each stroke in 
turn, and make it a* 
perfect as you can. 
There is a great deal of 
drudgery in this, I know, 
but unless you have en- 
thusiasm you might as 
well leave the game alone, 
When practising do not for- 
get that headwork is as 
important as properly- 
executed strokes. 

Make a habit of thinking 
about the game, find out all 
you can about it, and dis- 
cuss its various phases with 
your lawn tennis friends, 
A perusal of the many good 
books of instruct if m written 
by experts may also prove 
useful. Actual practice 
against a brick wall (a 
method I have personally 
found very valuable) is most 
helpful, so also is hitting a 
ball across the net to some 
friend who will hit or 
throw it back to you in 
any required manner. All 
your weaknesses can be 
remedied in this way. Tac- 
tics, consistency, and en- 
durance come by experience 
ence alone, 



to advise a batsman how to improve if one? 
does not know the sort of game he plays. 
Nevertheless, there are a mi niter of funda- 
mental tilings in batting, the neglect of which 
often keeps a player back. Very few' men, 
for instance, keep their eye on the ball right 
up to the moment of impact. 
This is very important. Then 
there is the matter of foot- 
work, of which much can be 
learnt by watching a first- 
class batsman — in the nets. 
Footwork and timing are, of 
course, the whole secret of 
success at batting. Some 
players never feem *' to get 
their leg to the ball" at all. 
Practice in front of a looking- 
glass can do much to eradi- 
cate faults in footwork. 
Another point : Do not be 
above asking a better player 
than yourself for a few hints 
or a little candid criticism as 
to faults. Take your strokes, 
one by one and bring them 
as near perfection as possible 
Generally speaking, I advise 
batsmen to learn to defend 
their wickets ; the strokes 
will come* When practising 
do so on good wickets where 
you have a chance of learn- 
ing how to time the ball cor- 
rectly; When batting in a 
match remember that it is 
the " bad one " you want to 
look for, not the " good 'un/' 
You will get plenty of runs 
by careful attention to this 
point. If you are a hitter 
by nature do not try to 
stonewall, and when you hit, 
hit with a straight bat, not 
across the ball, Bear in 
mind, also, that bad batting 
is often the result of a bad 
bat. Get a good bat from 
a man who knows what you 



and expert- 

It is 

{The World's Greatest Batsman.) 
somewhat difficult, I must confess, 

by Google 


(The fame us leader of ihe "old 
school " in Golf.) 
The great majority of the 
rank and file of golfers 
would play very much better than they do 
— some of them perhaps fifty per cent, 
better — if only they would not persist in 
making the game so difficult for themselves, 
What I mean is this : everywhere one sees 
amateurs of nearly all grades of ability 
attempting, shots, with clubs which are 

Original from 

Tips by Sporting Experts, 


incapable of securing the required distance 
unless swung to the full, and with the whole 
of tlie player's power. That is why so many 
efforts go awry.- 

In the endeavour to invest the shot with 
every ounce of his strength the player sways, 
loses his balance, and has no control over 
either the club or the direction of the ball's 
flight. Why it is that most golfers have 
this tendency to under club themselves, and 
strain to db with one club what would be 
simple with another, is one of the little mys- 
teries of the pastime. Possibly it is because 
they are always longing to be able to say, 
" I was on this or that green to-day with a 
drive and an iron." 

Time after time when a player could reach 
a green comfortably with a spoon, and control 
the shot all the while because 
of the absence of overswinging, 
you will see him take a mid- 
iron and slog for all he is 

There is a mistaken impres- 
sion as to the length of shot 
which should be attempted 
with a mashie. You hear 
a lot of people say : r< I 
love the mashie ; I can get 
one hundred and fifty yards 
with it." Probably they 
can sometimes, but in what 
direction, and how often 
does the stroke end in a 
miserable foozle ? 

You do not find a first- 
class professional making 
these mistakes. Of course, 
a full drive necessitates a 
full swing — and a great joy 
it is — but when the pro- 
fessional is playing up to 
the green, and accuracy of 
direction is all-important, 
he takes a club which will 
enable him to obtain the 
distance with a half or 
three - qu arter swi ng . He 
makes the game easy for 
himself, and my advice 
to the player who 
wants to improve 
fifty per cent, is: 
" Whatever you 
do, don't let 
your shots up 
to the hole be 
hard work. 
Play them with 
clubs which 
will allow you 
to play them 
within your- 





(One of (he best -known of the younger school of 

go If en,) 
When watching the average handicap 
player at golf, I feel that the first thing he 
needs to do in order to bring about a big 
improvement in his game is to introduce a 
certain element of relaxation into his pose, 

I am aware that it is not easy for a person 
who has taken up the pastime more or less 
Late in life to have that elasticity of body 
movement and freedom in the joints which 
are the heritage of the individual who has 
been playing since early child hoof! , but there 
is no reason for the exaggerated stiffness 
of the body which one sees so often during 
the address, and which continues during the 
swing. It ruins the shots, because one 
simply cannot hope to hit a golf ball far 
and sure when all the muscles are rigid* 

It begins with the grip. The player 
feels that he must hold the club tightly. 
That is a certain sign of lack of con- 
fidence* and the ordinary golfer does, as a 
rule, lack confidence. This tightening of 
the wrist and of the arm muscles in 
the gripping of the club communi- 
cates itself to the rest of the body. 
No one person 
can have two 
degrees of ten- 
sity at the same 
time, The con- 
sequence is that 
he takes the 
club back in a 
stato of mus- 
cular constric- 
tion. And who 
could play golf 
well in that 
manner? It 
means, for cer- 
tain shots, defi- 
ciency in length, 
and length is the 
joy for which 
most golfers 

Watch the 
boy player, the 
caddie if you 
like. His wrists 
are loose, he has 
a finger- hold of 
the club — safe 
but not taut — 
his body is easy. 
That is the 
model. Physical 
may prevent its 
perfect repro- 
duction, but it 

Original from 


Tips by Sporting Experts, 

is at least possible to cultivate an unre- 
strained grip and pose. 

In approach shots every first- class player 
has the toe of the club turned slightly away 
from the ball — with mashic, rni d- iron; even 
cleek. The ordinary golfer has a definite 
fancy for placing the face of the club dead 
square to the line which he hopes to take. 
Sometimes he pulls to the left ; sometimes 
he sockets to the right. He can improve a 
lot by adopting this plan of turning the face 
of the club very slightly away from the ball 
during the address. It produces the shot 
that cuts the ball up into the air, and helps 
it to fly straight. 



(Runner-up Croquet Championship, 1919 + ) 
If we wish to improve at any game it is 
necessary first of all to discover exactly 

MR, DUFF MATHEWS, Croquet Champion 1919. 


what faults we possess. This is not easy 
to do by ourselves, and we sigh in vain 
for the power " to see ourselves as others 
See us;" 

It is strange that though in the ordinary 
datly round of life we resent being told of 
our shortcomings and imperfections, in the 
matter of games we nut only welcome some 
4i scratch " friend pointing out our faults, 
but pay experts to do so ! 

Success at croquet — as in golf— depends 
very largely on the stability of the stance. 
I use the word " stance p> not merely with 
reference to the feet, but to include the 
position of the head, shoulders, upper arm, 
back, and legs during a stroke. 

In my picture of Mr. Duff Mathews, last 
year's Croquet Champion, I have purposely 
drawn the figure to emphasize this. Only 
those parts of the body actually necessary 
for the making of the stroke — which I call 
' the working parts " — move. 

You will notice that through Mr, Duff 
Mathews's elbow I have put 
a bolt. By this I hope to 
convey to my readers that 
above this point there is abso- 
lute immobility, and that the 
only movement is made by 
the lower army from the 
elbow, and by the hands 
from the wrist, 

Make up your mind what 
mallet suits you, and what 
stance suits you. I come 
across, each year, tournament 
players who, at the beginning 
of the season, show me with 
pride some alteration they 
have made in the position 
of their hands or feet. No 
wonder they never improve. 

Having adopted a mallet 
and stance which you are 
convinced is entirely com- 
fortable to you, concentrate 
on ensuring the immobility of 
everything except the " work- 
ing parts," 

Lifting the head too soon 
~i.e wl before the ball has 
left the mallet— and raising 
the shoulders, are two of 
the most fruitful sources of 
missing " roquets/' and stick- 
ing in hoops. And it is the 
player who hits the long 
and middle distance shots, 
and runs the hoops more 
consistently than his op- 
ponent who wins the game. 
Mv advice in a nutshell i-: - 
Study a steady stance- 


213 din 
iikt \ 

: s fss c 
;*, i 











by Google 

Original from 




^HE bright sun- 
light of an 
April morning 
fell through the 
tail, half -curtained win- 
dows directly across Mr t 
W ornbold h s breakfast- 
table, placed just in 
front of the friendly 
recess of the bay win- 
dow. Outside, a rose- 
garden filled the air 
with puffs of perfume 
that drifted lazily 
through the half-raised 
sash. The table was 
set for two, Mr. Worn- 
bold having la t el y 
formed the practice of 
breakfasting with his 
secretary* Miss Armi- 
tage, At the master's 
place lay the morning 
papers neatly folded by 
Otu, his manservant. 

The room was empty as 
Mr. Wombold entered. He was 
a tall man whom accumulated 
years had bowed, lean with the flesh- 
lessness of age, with scant white hair 
fringing a high, narrow forehead. Deep- 
set eyes full of absent brooding, angular 
features touched upon their bony prominences 
with a pinkish pallor, a mobile mouth withered 
by time, all served to fix the Impression of 
a recluse who had not so much renounced 
the world as wearied of it. He was dressed 
with care, even daintiness, yet moved with 
a large, slow gesture as if accustomed and 
indifferent to the niceties of attire* In his 
hand he held a volume of Maeterlinck con- 
taining studies of some recent experiments 
in psychic research, which he intended to 
peruse in the garden after breakfast. 

Mr. Wombold seated himself at the table, 
laid the volume of Maeterlinck to one side, 
and lifted the newspapers, glancing idly at 
the head Tines. As he laid aside the last 
one, he noticed beneath it a small square 
of cardboard. It was of the shape, size, 
and texture of the ordinary business -card, 
and bore. in its centre a curious monogram 
composed of the letters "H" and M F." Nothing 
else appeared on the card. 

Mr, Wombold gazed at it, at first, with the 
same abstraction and indifference with which 
he had handled the newspapers; but the card, 
as if by some subtle and impelling attraction, 
held his gaze until it gradually focused into 
alert consciousness. The colour left his face, 
which sank to the sickly yellow of old ivory. 

VoL Uu-fl 



Clarence Meikj 

A moment later, a 
stertorous intake of air, 
as if he were regaining 
his breath by a deter- 
mined muscular effort, 
sent the blood surging 
back into his neck and 
face. He rose trem- 
blingly, and violently 
pressed the button of 
an electric bell set in 
the wainscoting at his 
side, Otu answered the 

" Who has been in 
here ? r ' Mr. Wombold 
demanded, glaring at 
the Japanese. 
" None, sir/' 
M Where have you 
been ? " 

* 1 am attending the 
preparing fruit at the 
" Did you put those news- 
papers here ? 
- Yes, sir." 
" Where did that come from ? M 
He pointed to the card, but did not 
touch it, Otu examined it, and shook 
his head, 

* r I not see it," he said, " I doan' know." 
" Where is Miss Armitage ? " 
" She walk out some hi' time. Back ver f 
soon, I guess/' 

Mr t Wombold turned from him with a 
growl that sent the Japanese scurrying out 
of the room. He took up the card very 
gingerly in the fingers of one hand and 
turned it over. The under side was blank. 
He carried the. card to the buffet, where 
stood a bronze cigar-holder and ash-tray. 
He laid it on the tray and, lighting a match, 
held the burning wood to the cardboard till 
it was wholly consumed, Then he left the 
room for the lavatory, where he washed his 
hands. When ; he returned, Miss Armitage 
was in her place at the table. 

" Has anyone called here this morning ? *' 
Wombold asked, omitting any preliminary 

** No one that I know of. 1 ' 
" 1 found a — a business-card by my plate. 
Do you know how it got there ? " 
■ Miss Armitage drew her pretty brows into 
a slight frown of perplexity. 

"I anY sure I couldn't tell you," she said, 
" I went out to post the letters you dictated 
yesterday evening. There has been no one 
here that I know of/' 

Mr. Wombold stepped into the recess of 
the bay window arid locked out over the 



The Ghost Book 

rose-garden. The sun was warm ; the 
flowers glistened with ardent life ; a linnet 
in one of the rose-trees caroled shrilly. 
It was a most practical and reassuring 

As he came back to the table, Otu began 
serving breakfast. All the same, a pre- 
occupation so profound settled over Mr. 
Wombold that he entirely neglected both 
the food and Miss Armitage's efforts at 
conversation. Presently he arose, and, 
leaving the volume of Maeterlinck behind, 
sauntered out into the garden. 


EVEN the full tide of sunlight in which 
Mr. Wombold stood submerged failed to 
warm him, or to irradiate the dark flood 
of recollections that swept in upon him from 
a remote past. It had been forty years 
since he had seen that* monogram. Time 
and success, wealth and long undisturbed 
security, had given to his sense of Safety 
a complete finality. It had taken him some 
moments even to remember what the thing 

Now, in miniature imposed by the* per- 
spective of the years, as if he looked through 
a reversed telescope, he saw. again the 
quaint, winding streets of the old village, 
with their shading elms, their austere, 
peak-roofed dwellings. He Saw the little 
shop, under its wooden awning, where two 
young men, playfellows and schoolmates, 
had bravely started their first business 
venture as partners. It seemed to him he 
could still smell, above the odour of the 
roses, the strange, mingled aromas of that 
dingy interior — spices from the tropics, salt 
fish that carried the tang of the ocean, the 
pungent smell of vinegar, the clean perfume 
of new linens and calicoes 

It had been a store of general merchandise, 
and he had been one of its proud proprietors. 
His name had not been Wombold then. 
The firm's initials had been fashioned into 
a monogram, which had come to stand as 
its distinctive emblem — almost, one might 
say, its trade-mark. It appeared on its 
stationery, in its advertising, on the sign 
over the door. It was one of the many 
things of which the young partners had 
been so proud—" H " and fc F " Combined 
within a circle, thus :— 


Yes, forty years had passed since he had 
seen it. 

But for all their pride and all their gay 
young confidence, the firm of Hart and Frazier 
had not prospered. It was hard to say 
what had been the matter, except that 

they were too eager, too confident, too 
daring. They had done . much business, 
they had handled large sums, but they 
had also accumulated heavy debts. In 
the end, when failure became inevitable, 
they had~ agr^pd to turn all their assets 
into cash and pay their creditors pro rata, as 
much as possible. Then they would work 
together, as common labourers if need be, 
to settle the balance. 

Part of this programme, the liquidation 
of the assets, had been carried out. Then, 
one night, Frazier had disappeared, and 
with him had gone all the firm's money. 
Hart was left to face utter ruin alone. How 
he had borne this betrayal, how he had 
met the disaster, how he had struggled to 
bear the burden, what life had held for 
him, whether indeed he had lived or died, 
the old man meditating in the garden did 
not know. The night through which he 
had fled, driven by the mad rebellion of 
all his youthful hopes against a premature 
defeat, had never lifted, for him, from that 
little town which it had engulfed. 

Under another « name, with the stolen 
money as his capital, and with the exper- 
ience gained from failure, in the generous 
and fruitful West, fortune had -come to 
him. By sheer forc$ o£ wiH, later by habit, 
and at last in very truth, he had; lorgotten. 

And now, like a strtjlge t%s£t>f air blown 
out of some cavernous depth, of time, had 
come this monogram. He shqbk.his chilled 
frame, both to revive his lagging flow of 
blood and to dispel the seitee of weird 
unreality that the experience of the morning 
had brought. His withered lips stiffened 
into a grim line as he thought of the most 
probable and practical explanation of the 

Blackmail, of course ! Someone had 
identified him at last as Frazier, and had 
taken this clumsy method of rousing his 
fears. Later, no doubt, the full intrigue 
would be revealed. 

Well, reflected the old man, they would 
have a merry time trying to intimidate 
him I He had taken pains, before he fled 
from Bracksford, to ascertain that a partner 
who absconds with the firm's assets com- 
mits no crime. That was why Hart had 
been powerless to pursue him, because he 
had not had the machinery for the appre- 
hension of criminals at his command. As 
for any civil liability, that was barred long 
ago by the statute of limitations. Legally, 
he was immune, and he could laugh at 

He clung to this theory of blackmail. 
There was something human, material, 
normal, and understandable about it. Flesh 
and blood men did such things, and could 
be dealt with in the flesh. He was not too 


Clarence Meily 



V. ho has been in here > ' Mr. Wombold demanded, glaring «rt the Japanese. ' None, sir.* " 

ivERSiTv of Michigan 


The Ghost Book 

old to do battle with opponents who could 
be seen and felt and pointed out. They 
merely roused his courage and stimulated 
his dormant energies. 

The other alternative he refused to con- 
sider, though it was that, he knew, which 
made the heat of the sun so oddly ineffectual. 
He had dabbled too much in the preter- 
natural, and had cultivated too far a mystical 
attitude of mind, to be oblivious to the 
occult implications of the incident. Such 
ideas, he realized, grew on one imperceptibly. 

He was sorry now that Miss Armitage 
had pointed his attention in the direction 
of spiritualism and psychic phenomena, 
though when the suggestion was made, in 
the period of ennui following his retirement 
from business, he had welcomed it rather 
gladly. He was sorry, too, that he had 
burned the mysterious card. It would 
have been better to preserve it, not only as 
a clue, but as a demonstration of normality. 
As it was, he had only memory and these 
dubious, fantastic conceptions that fascin- 
ated and appalled him. He wondered 
whether Hart was dead. 


IT was several days later that Mr. Wombold, 
returning from an afternoon motor ride, 
found Miss Armitage at her desk in the 
library fingering a significant slip of cardboard. 

" A man called to see you while you were 
out," said the secretary. 

Mr. Wombold glanced at the card she 
held out, but made no move to take it. 
He received the announcement without 
any visible sign of emotion, merely seating 
himself heavijy and for a moment staring 
in silence at the wall. 

" What kind of a man was he ? " he 
asked, when he had mastered the con- 
traction in his throat. 

" Why, he was not a large man — rather 
slightly built, perhaps about thirty-five. 
He had brown hair and eyes, but he was 
somewhat grey, and had a kind of worried 
look. He is hard to describe exactly — 
rather odd-looking/' 

" How was he odd ? " 

Wombold put the question harshly, in 
a tone that grated with sharp insistence. 
The puzzled frown on Miss Armitage's 
forehead deepened. 

" Why, he was dressed rather queerly, 
for one thing, as if his clothes had been 
laid away for thirty years or more. I 
noticed he wore one of those old-fashioned 
stiff white shirts, and he had a queer collar 
and tie. His coat was long, and his trousers 
weren't creased, but ironed smooth all 
round, and he had a low-crowned felt hat 
and buttoned shoes. He was pervaded by 
a general air of antiquity, one might say." 


Wombold was leaning forward with his 
fists knotted on the arms of his chair. His 
deep, brooding eyes burned upon the girl's 

" I told him you were out for a ride," 
she went on, " and he asked if your carriage 
would be long. I said I thought you would 
be back in an hour, so he left this card " 

" Did he have a beard ? " the old man 
interrupted chokingly, his face suddenly 
gone grey. 

" Yes, a short brown beard. Why, Mr. 
Wombold ? " 

Mr. Wombold had fallen back into the 
depths of the chair, with one whispered 
syllable that the girl did not understand. 
His ashen cheeks stood out in high relief 
against the dark upholstery. Miss Armi- 
tage sprang to his side. 

" Your heart ? Mr. Wombold, did you 
say it was your heart ? Oh, Mr. Wombold, 
are you ill ? " 

He opened his eyes and regarded her 
strickenly, with the dumb reproach of one 
who has received dreadful tidings. Pre- 
sently the lifetime habit of combat reasserted 
itself, and courage and resolution dawned in 
his gaze. 

" Better in a moment," he whispered. 
" Don't leave me. The card ! " 

Miss Armitage lifted it from the desk 
where she had dropped it, and held it out. 

" Keep it ! " he ordered. " I am not yet 
convinced. It may be a trick. I am going 
to know. Help me to the couch." 

After two days of troubled cogitatiori , 
during which he had steadied his nerves 
by the exercise of that steadfast will which 
served him in lieu of physical strength, 
Mr. Wombold fixed upon two methods of 
investigation, the one material, the other 
psychic. One or the other of them, he 
felt, should disclose the nature of the forces 
that menaced him. 

To carry out the first, he employed a 
well-known detective agency, instructing the 
superintendent to ascertain the origin of 
the last card received, and the identity 
of the person who had presented it. He 
waited for a report before resorting to the 
second line of inquiry. 

The report, when it came, proved baffling. 
As far as the mysterious caller who had 
appeared before Miss Armitage was con- 
cerned, absolutely no trace of him could be 
discovered. No individual answering his 
description had been seen in the neigh- 
bourhood of the Wombold residence, nor 
could any such person be found at any of 
the city's hotels or principal lodging-houses. 
The oddity of his aspect made this com- 
plete disappearance the more inexplicable. 

As to the card, the report was less definite. 
The monogram, it sesme:!, was not so unique 


Clarence Meily 


as Wombold had supposed. Two or three 
firms in the city having the initials " H " 
and '• F " had used it, or something re- 
sembling it, and various job-printing houses 
had supplied stationery containing it. None, 
however, recalled printing cards bearing 
nothing else, and several printers were 
positive that the cardboard was of a stock 
which had not been in use or on the market 
for a number of years. 

In short, the search of the detectives had 
ended against a blank wall. With a 
sickening apprehension, Wombold turned 
to his alternative line of research. 

11 Make an appointment with Mme. 
Charleroi for to-morrow afternoon," he 
told Miss Armitage. 

The stance was held in Mr. Wombold 's 
library, none being present but himself and 
the medium. The blinds were drawn to 
half length, filling the room with a mellow, 
golden gloom. 

Mme. Charleroi, a small, stout woman, 
garbed in black, and with the flat features, 
high cheek-bones, and neutral complexion of 
the Baltic littoral, was a noted psychic, enjoy- 
ing an exclusive clientele among the well-to-do 
and far removed from the common class of 
irresponsible charlatans. The aged magnate 
had consulted her often in recent years, not 
infrequently with remarkable results. 

The two confronted each other now in 
an accustomed comradeship, the medium 
impassive, Wombold under a severely re- 
pressed strain that showed in his intent 
eyes and the slight, nervous movements of 
his lips and hands. 

" Tell me what comes to you," he said. 
44 Allow a free flow of suggestion from 
across the border." 

Mme. Charleroi leaned back and closed 
her eyes. She was motionless for . ten or 
fifteen minutes, during which a slightly 
increased paleness and regular breathing 
denoted the heightening of psychic suscep- 
tibility. Worn hold's gaze never left her 
face as he waited tensely the result of the 
experiment. At last the medium's lips 
moved, and as he leaned forward he could 
catch a faint form of words : — 

' I see — darkness I " 

There was another pause, and then Wom- 
bold commanded, sternly : — 

" Yes. Go forward ! Try to pierce the 
darkness ! " 

An expression of pity and pain gradually 
came upon Mme. Charleroi's sleeping coun- 

" A wrong, very great and very old," 
she whispered. " There is someone to 
communicate with you — a troubled spirit. 
He speaks the name of Henry Hart." 

The listener gasped. 

" Go on I " he stammered. 

Suddenly the quality of Mme. Charleroi's 
voice changed. It assumed a masculine 
ring, genial and cheery, yet with a note of 
reproach in it. 

w George, you remember that mortgage 
I put on my house to meet the Macey 
Woollen Company's bill, don't you ? George, 
they're going to foreclose that mortgage. I 
can't meet everything, and if I lose my home 
there'll be nothing for my family but beggary. 
I'm trying to see you " 

" Henry, have mercy ! " 

Wombold 's stifled cry broke the thread 
of the medium's monologue. Mme. Charle- 
roi's body was wrenched violently to one 
side, and she opened her eyes. 

" What's the matter ? " she demanded. 
" You hurt me ! " 

Wombold sat staring at her in a paroxysm 
of fear. 

" Did anything happen ? " repeated the 

He made no answer, but continued to 
stare as if her presence was blotted out for 
him by his own fearful fancies. Mme. 
Charleroi rose and rang the bell. Miss 
Armitage answered it. 

" You'd better look after him," the 
medium said to her. " He's had a shock." 


IT was three days before Wombold le't his 
bed, and when he reappeared it was as if 

five or six years had elapsed, so much 
older and more broken did he appear. He 
seemed to have become a haunted man. 
Never for a moment would he consent to 
be left alone. If Miss Armitage could not 
be with him, Otu must be. At night the 
Japanese servant slept In his employer's 
bedroom, where he maintained at least a 
nominal watch. 

Mr. Wombold had now definitely sur- 
rendered the idea of any human agency 
as responsible for the phenomena he had 
experienced. His preoccupation with spirit- 
ualism deepened, and his studies became 
more absorbing, though he no longer 
resorted to Mme. Charleroi or even per- 
mitted her to be mentioned. He still 
employed the detective agency, however, 
directing it to make discreet inquiry as to 
Henry Hart's relatives and their history. 
He learned in this way that Hart's widow 
still lived in Bracksford, and that the family 
had finally, after years of hardship, settled 
the last of the claims against the old part- 
nership, though not until anxiety and stress 
had cost the life of Hart himself while still 
in his early manhood. 

But though convinced of the supernatural 
character of the manifestations that had 
terrified him, and at heart sceptical of the 
precautions he; had devised against their 



The Ghost Book 

repetition, and though the power of repara- 
tion was his and the duty acknowledged by 
his own conscience, Worn bold did nothing 
more towards satisfying his ancient debt. 
He seemed to await some further direc- 
tion, some additional constraint, which 
should make restitution inescapable. It 
came soon enough, and in a manner entirely 

Since the sit- 
ting with Mrae. 
Charleroi, Worn- 
bold 's sleep had 
been fitful and 
dream - laden — 
owing in part, 
perhaps, to the 
freer and more 
nutritious diet 
solicitously urged 
on him by 
Miss Armitage, 
coupled with a 
lack of his usual 
exercise. In his 
somnolent brain 
visions of a far-off 
boyhood mingled 
with broken 
images of present 
surroundings, as 
if two distinct 
each with its own 
distinct memory, 
struggled for 
dominance. He 
would wake sud- 
denly from these 
confused fan- 
tasies into a 
painfully vivid 
consciousness in 
which every sense 
was strung to 
abnormal expec- 
tancy. Only by 
the severest self- 
discipline could 
he quiet himself 
again to slumber. 

He woke thus one night, about the spec- 
tral hour of two in the morning, with the 
distressing intuition of an alien presence 
an the room. He listened, but could 
hear nothing more than his own panting 

By the dim glow of the night-lamp he 
could make out the recumbent figure of 
Otu on a cot at the other side of the room. 
The sight of the Japanese, and of the vague 
shapes of familiar articles in the room, 
reassured him* He could neither see nor 
hear anything to justify his alarm, and 

Digitized by VjOOQ IC 

presently* with practised self-control, he 
recompensed himself to sleep. 

Some time later his dreams, which had 
flowed through his mind in the usual in- 
congruous jumble of sense images, resolved 
themselves into the definite impression of 
burial. He seemed to lie entombed, a 
mass of earth or stone pressing down 

In an access of terror, he sprang to a sitting posture with a shriek. 

upon him with an intolerable yet hopeless 

As his consciousness rose to the waking 
plane, this impression took on the poignant 
reality that constitutes a nightmare, He 
strove to cry out, to move, to escape. He 
groped wildly with his hands, which encoun- 
tered a heavy object lying on his breast. 

In an access of terror, he sprang to a 
sitting posture with a shriek. The thing 
slipped to his lap and lay there, massive, 
hard, ponderous. His hands explored its 
angular outline ^s he screamed again. In 


*»». and 1SlJ? tts,n «» 



^^V':''-t. .* 

^^vr"^- - 

' 'I* » -1 » 

■"V> w,. *'"■ 
• .,, ""*• ' 

. V:; 1 , :■ < 

"v, :?,■' 


* ., ',"" 

,r ' - 

1 'I 



^,fc» * 


1 **.*r 

red the book's angular outline a 

::^ «vwti hartrf writing ' 

i* " . * ■! forty yrir^ With 
. i man Ml Imck upon i.p 


'--r't^i j*? fif»T rn 





.■5) r 


t ? 

i other 

^e of 


-av so. 

of the 


ill sense 


his ex- 

u t as he 

he recoils 

? What's 
vhat's aJI 
ralysis ? 

do you 
ess ki the 


The Ghost Book 

telephone below stairs, if, to quiet him, they 
had not promised to call his lawyer. 

After, some difficulty Miss Armitage suc- 
ceeded in arousing Mr. Carrington, and 
induced him to come to the Wombold 
residence at once. By the morning a cheque 
for seven thousand pounds, the amount of 
the original defalcation with interest added, 
was on its way to the little town, enclosed in 
a registered letter addressed to Henry Hart's 

; V. 

IN the. sunny library Miss Clara Armitage 
was engaged in clearing out the drawers 

oi her typewriter-desk. She was softly 
humming a gay little tune, bright as the 
sunlight itself, and on her face was a queer 
little smile, half-amused, half-wistful, such 
as that with which sympathetic grown-ups 
regard the tragedies of childhood. 

From the deepest recess of the bottom 
drawer she drew out a small package of 
cards, of the size and general character of 
business-cards, but having nothing printed 
on them except a circle enclosing a mono- 
gram composed of the letters " H " and 
' F." She ran these thoughtfully through 
her fingers for a moment, then slipped 
them into her pocket, went out into the 
hall, and mounted the stairs. On the floor 
above she knocked at Mr. Wombold 's bed- 
room door. There being no audible reply, 
she entered. 

Mr. Wombold lay in an easy chair before 
the window. He looked as if he were just 
emerging from a grave illness. His skin 
had exchanged its wonted healthy pallor 
for a tissue -like fragility, his great eyes 
seemed unusually sunken in his emaciated 
features, and he was wrapped in a listless 
apathy such as belongs to the period of 
early convalescence. 

Miss Armitage came forward and took- a 
seat by his side. He regarded her vacantly, 
without change of expression. 

" Mr. Wombold," she said, " I am going 
away. I have come to say good-bye." 

" Good-bye ? " 

" Yes. I am going back to my home in 
the North." 

" What for ? " 

" I — I am going to be married," Miss 
Armitage confessed with a blush. 

The old man sighed. 

" It goes on," he said, " just the same, 
doesn't it ? Life, that is — it goes on and 
on till the end." 

" Mr. Wombold," cried the girl, " I can't 
bring myself to go away and leave you in 
this condition, a prey to all these super- 
stitious fears. You have been very good 
to me, and I want to talk to you a little. 
Won't you listen ? " 

by Google 

He acquiesced with a listless dropping of 
the eyelids. 

" Do you remember six years ago," she 
went on; " when I applied at your bank for 
work ? I had just come from the country. 
I had come on purpose to find you, Mr. 

Wombold glanced at her with a vague 

" Find me ? " he repeated. 

" Yes. When you gave me a place, I 
tried from the first to make myself so 
efficient that you would make me your 
private secretary. When you did that, I 
worked harder than ever, hoping to make 
myself so indispensable that you would 
always keep me with you. I succeeded in 
that, as you know. By the time you retired 
from business, three years ago, I had my 
plans all laid. I knew from little things I'd 
seen, like not starting anything on Friday, 
and avoiding the number thirteen, and so 
on, that you were superstitious. So I got 
you into the way of studying occultism and 
spiritualism. I was so sure of my plans 
that I even had these cards printed then." 

She held up the package of cards. Wom- 
bold's colour had come back, and his eyes 
took on some of their old-time brilliance as 
he stared wonderingly at her. 

" You had them printed — those cards ? 
What for ? " 

" For my plan. But, tell me first, even 
if nothing mysterious had happened to 
induce you to pay back the money, wouldn't 
you still be glad you did it ? " 

" Yes," he said strongly. " It should 
have been done long ago. I have wished 
to do it, but I was held back by my pride, 
by the shame of confession " 

" I know," she hastily interrupted. " I 
thought that was it. And now I want you 
to know that it was I who placed one of 
these cards by your breakfast-plate last 
April. The story of the man who called 
to see you and left one of them was just a 
fabrication on my part. There wasn't any 
such man." 

" But Mme. Charleroi ? " he objected, in 
dazed amazement. 

" She gets her percentage of the seven 
thousand, never fear. It may be betraying 
her to tell you so, but I think you ought 
to know. As for that old ledger, I had it 
sent to me from home. It was I who came 
in and put it on your chest that night." 

" You ! " he cried. " In mercy's name, 
who are you ? " 

Her merry laugh had nevertheless a trace 
of tears in it as she caught his hand and 
answered : — 

" My dear old friend, I am the grand- 
daughter of Henry Hart ! " 

Original from 



■* ■ .. \ i ,. mr 

Hbamn ±Re French 


THE Doctor (at the front door) ; Is this 
the house, madam, where the little boy 
is 01 ? 

Madam : Yes, doctor. Come in, please. It 
is my little boy* Just fancy, ever since 
this morning, poor little dear, he has done 
nothing but tumble down. 

Doctor : Tumble down ! 

Madam ; All day long. Yes, doctor. 

Doctor ; On the floor ? 

Madam : On the floor. 

Doctor : Very strange ! How old is he ? 

Madam : Four and a half. 

Doctor : He ought to stand up well enough 
at that age. How did this come on ? 

Madam : I really don't know, doctor. He 
was quite all right last night, and playing 
about the room like a monkey- This 
morning I dressed him as usual* I put on 
his stockings, his blouse, and his knicker- 
bockers, and set him on his feet t Down 
he tumbled ! 

Doctor : Perhaps he slipped. 

Madam : Wait ! I picked 
down he went again. It 
or eight times following, 
amazed. As I told you, ever since the 
morning he has done nothing but tumble 

Doctoh : Marvellous ! Weil, I'd better have 
a look at him. 

Madam: Oh, yes, do ! I'll bring him down. 
(She goes out ; then reappears carrying the 
little boy. He is rosy and fat with perfect 
health. He is dressed in a long, hose blouse, 
decked with dry smears of " sweeties,'*) 

him up r but 
happened six 
I was simply 

Doctor : Why, he looks splendid* Put 
him down, please. {The mother obeys. The 
child tumbles down on the floor.) 

Doctor : I never heard of such a thing in 
my life ! (To the httle boy, whom hts 
mother is holding up under his arms) ; 
Now, tell me, my little friend, do you feel 
in pain anywhere ? 

Toto ; No, sir. 

Doctor : No ache in your head ? 

Toto : No, sir, 

Doctor : You slept like a top last night ? 

Toto ; Yes, sir. 

Doctor : Just so. (He turns to the mother 
and speaks with the air of a man who 
knows all about it.) It is a case of 

Madam : Para ! Good gracious ! {She 

raises her arms — the child tumbles down 

Doctor : I am sorry to have to say so. 
Yes, madam, complete paralysis of the 
lower limbs* You can see for yourself 
that the little boy's flesh has lost all sense 
of feeling. (As he speaks he approaches 
the patient and prepares to make his ex* 
periment r Then, all of a sudden, as he 
pulls up the liiUe boy's blouse , he recoils 
in amazement.) 

Doctor ; What's this ? What's this ? What's 
this ? Good heavens, madam, what's all 
this nonsense of yours about paralysis ? 

Madam : But, doctor 

Doctor : Tumble down ! What do you 
expect when you put both his legs in the 
same leg of bis knickerbockers I 




Author of " Unentered C&Uhritus** ei£. 

Illust^ateo bv 

IT is said that King Edward's tailor once 
referred to the society at Margate as 
a " mixed lot," on which the King 
remarked that he could hardly expect 
a watering - place which solely entertained 
tailors. The indictment and the defence 
might equally apply to the men of letters of 
to-day. They are certainly a mixed lot T 
and it is just as well that they should be ; 
it takes all kinds to make the smallest of 
worlds. But, however various in other 
respects, our writers have one quality in 
common — an inexhaustible and almost fero- 
cious pugnacity, They are fighters almost 
to a man, and even to a woman, for the 
spirit of controversy knows no sex frontier ; 
compare Miss Marie Corelli with Mrs. Hemans r 
and you realize the full force of the tendency 
which urges everybody who has the ear of 
the public to scream into it with shrill 
purposeful ness. 

Whence comes this widespread com bati ve- 
il ess ? I will not attempt to determine, 

Possibly it is only one manifestation of the 
general tendency to kick and scratch which 
brought about the great war — and even now 
makes getting an omnibus seat so painful a 
labour. Perhaps it is a specially literary 
reaction against the flabbiness of the " art 
for art's sake lp period. But, whatever the 
origins, the fact itself admits of no doubt. 
The gentlest writers of the day have, as 
regards public questions, an imperious and 
defying style, " a style for challengers, like 
Turk to Christian ." Mr. de Vere Stacpoole, 
who writes novels so full of the peace of his 
own blue lagoons, attacks certain contro- 
versial matters with something of the fury of 
the breakers beyond the coral reef of his 
Pacific isle, Mr + Maurice Hewlett, so pleasant 
a romancer within book covers, goes over 
the argumentative top with Berserk fury, 
Mr, Galsworthy, with a pity embracing the 
whole human race, and enough left over to 
go round all the world of dicky-birds, can 
still be a nasty opponent in a newspaper 


column, Mr. Charles Whibley is all " gas 
and gaiters "in dealing with the dead p but 
nobody has a sharper scalping-knife for the 
living. Sir Hall Caine and Mr. Jerome K> 
Jerome are often ori the war-path, and it is 
possible that Mr, W, W. Jacobs will some 
day emerge as a chastisen 

The fashion, I think, began with Mr. 
Rudyard Kipling, At any rate Mr, Kipling's 
arrival synchronized with the decline and 
fall of the school whose main tenet was that 
*' nothing matters but art/' Looking back 
at the late 'eighties, I seem to see two repre- 
sentative figures. One is that of a fattish 
but not inelegant figure, a well -groomed 
porpoise of a man, lolling on a sofa, and 
(between the whiffs of a scented cigarette) pro- 
pounding in carefully considered impromptus 
the thesis that all that is popular is vulgar, 
and that literature has nothing whatever to 
do with morals* The other is that of a 
black -browed little gamin, in spectacles, 
setting light to a cracker which will make the 
esthete jump. Oscar Wilde compassed his 
own personal destruction, but it was Mr. 
Kipling who, talking with Punch about 
things that mattered, struck dead as mutton 
the Oscar Wilde school of " art for art's sake/' 
Cecil Rhodes called Kipling " the only live 
poet " England ever had ; and he was not 
only " live " himself but the cause of " live- 
ness " in other men P Mr. Kipling, especially 
in his young days, was one of those people 
about whom it is impossible to be neutral ; 
you either liked him to extremity or you did 
not like him at all. Even in his private 

affairs he experienced no mean l^etween 
passionate hero-worship and emphatic dis- 
agreement. On his American and Canadian 
tours he evoked more enthusiasm than most 
crowned heads; yet his triumphant pro- 
gresses were punctuated by quarrels with 
hotel- keepers. On leaving one place he 
wrote, " 1 just want to say that of all the 
hotels under the shining sun I have never 
been in one that for unmitigated, all-round, 
unendurable discomfort could equal yours, 3 ' 
This was drastic enough ; but the last word 
was not with Mr, Kipling* When the bill 
was rendered a few minutes later the con- 
cluding item read : — 

" To impudence, three dollars, 1 ' 
So decided an element was bound to affect 
the whole moral chemistry of the time, and 
Mr, Kipling must be thanked, not only for 
the works of his own vehement genius, but 
for many other things which he called into 
being, or to which, at any rate, he gave de- 
finition and direction. Thus I always think 
of Mr. Kipling as the spiritual parent of Mr. 
Gilbert Keith Chesterton, Parent, of course, 
in the sense that the insect is the parent of 
the oak-apple ; it stings the oak and raises 
a lump which growls apart and hardens into 
permanency and quite complicated organiza- 
tion. Mr. Kipling stung Mr. Chesterton 
when a very young man, and raised a very 
big lump indeed ; it will always be one of 
the curiosities, and may well be reckoned 
some day among the treasures, of British 
literature. The more emphatically Mr. Kip- 
hng preached Empire, the more decisively 



Writers on the War-Path 

Mr. Chesterton embraced the parish pump, 
though, despite all his loyalty to that insti- 
tution, he has never looked with favour on 
its peculiar product. The more Mr. Kipling 
quoted Medicine Hat and Wagga Wagga, the 
more intensely did Mr. Chesterton turn to 
the glories of " the town of Roundabout." 
The more Mr. Kipling rhapsodized over 
modernism, the more Mr. Chesterton became 
convinced that reason and liberty shrieked 
when the monasteries fell, and that there has 
really been no life worth living since the 
Middle Ages. 

Many things might have slept, indeed, but 
for Mr. Kipling's strident note of challenge, 
and among them the combativeness of " the 
Wild Knight. 1 ' For I cannot help thinking 
that, but for some stimulus of the kind, so 
4t enormously lazy " a man (it is his own 
description) as Mr. Chesterton would have 
been well content with the things that don't 
matter — or that do (it is purely a question of 
private judgment) : I mean art, Shakespeare, 
and the musical glasses. Mr. Chesterton 
was really made for a battle of wits at the 
Mermaid tavern, or such modern equivalent 
as we might get for it. With a due Bos well 
he would make a capital second edition of 
Johnson ; one feels that it is his business to 
talk about man as man, and not about the 
small sub-section of the species known as 
politicians. His very breadth — for his mind 
is well suited to the vast frame which, in- 
adequately sheltered by a hansom cab, used 
to be one of the sights of Fleet Street — makes 
for narrowness, in the contentions of the 

For though Mr. Chesterton loves, as I have 
said, the parish pump, he abhors those who 
drink from it and those who would use it to 
wash other people. The social reformer who 
would take away the people's beer is to him 
just as hateful, but not more so, as the social 
reformer who would abolish the people's dirt. 
He hates cocoa, and has written a passionate 
poem denouncing it as a cad and coward 
and a greasy slave. He hates millionaires, 
especially those who build model villages 
and emit moral maxims. 

He hates — no, he does not hate ; he is 
always most particular in explaining that 
he does not hate ; but he says very severe 
things about Jews, whom (though otherwise 
a humane man) he would send to Palestine. 
He has no great love for Nonconformists. 
His own religious leanings are a little obscure ; 
perhaps they were best described by the 
wit who said he sat on the steps of a Roman 
Catholic church telling people what a capital 
place it was inside. He does not like 
members of Parliament in general, and he 
dislikes Ministers in particular. He is 
roused to fury by those who want cheap 
divorce and more policewomen. He detests 

by L^OOgle 

especially doctors and other people who 
go about telling working-class mothers 
how to look after their children. 

Now all these particular aversions, crossing 
as they do all the border-lines of social 
controversy, do give a certain narrowness, 
as well as a certain whimsicality, to Mr. 
Chesterton's onslaught on things as they 
are. He is all for Jack the Giant Killer 
until that hero (thirsty after his sixth or 
seventh encounter) refreshes himself with 
ginger-ale. Then we are astonished to 
be told (quite suddenly) that Jack is in 
secret collusion with the giants, and that 
it is quite a mistake to believe that any 
of them is really dead. 

MR. CHESTERTON finds pleasure in 
fighting against odds. That kind of 
fighting only is admirable. During 
the Boer War he founded a Patriots' 
Club ; like the little girl's family, the 
patriots were seven. '* G. K." at least 
resembled one brother of the Words- 
worthian heroine : he was in the very 
heaven of the combative ; a hope must 
be very forlorn indeed before he enjoys 
leading it. His journalistic time brought 
him in contact with men who repre- 
sented all his pet antipathies. One — 
a distinguished teetotaller — once compli- 
mented him on the unvarying brilliancy 
of his articles. " How do you do it ? " 
he asked. " Wdl, you see," said Mr. 
Chesterton, " I go and get some beer ; then 
I get some more beer ; then I get quite a 
lot of beer ; and then when I have had nearly 
as much beer as I want I sit down and it 
comes." The conversation was quickly 

Mr. Chesterton has been a Liberal and 
a Socialist, and is consequently never 
happier than when fighting either, or both 
together. His sword-play, astonishingly 
agile for such a Porthos, gives him great 
joy ; he has been seen under a lamp in 
Fleet Street reading proofs of one of his 
own articles and gurgling with pleas re. 
It is only fair to say that the pleasure is 
very widely shared ; a new Chesterton 
book is the event of the season to many 
people, while among his personal following 
everything belonging to him is sacred. 
Though he hits hard, there is the soul of 
good humour in his writings, and there 
could not be a more thick-and-thin friend ; 
he is chivalrously ready to cover the retreat 
of any worsted comrade, and many of his 
followers, less resourceful than himself, 
are apt to get worsted in using his weapons. 
Chivalry is, indeed, Mr. Chesterton's 
strong point ; was it not said that he gave 
up his seat in an omnibus to " three ladies " ? 
It was chivalry that made him oppose the 
Original from 


E. T\ Raymond 


soman's vote ; he did not want the sex to 
make itself ridiculous. Mr. Shaw, he said 
on one occasion, only wanted women to be 
enfranchised because men could then be rude 
to them -without being thought cads. 

CLOSELY asso- 
ciated with Mr, 
Chesterton is a 
sterner figure. Mr + 
Hilaire Belloc is with 
him in many things ; 
he, too, w r ould fain 
back to the Middle 
Ages ; as to Roman 
Catholicism, he goes 
farther than the steps 
of the Oratory ; he 
carri es the literary 
cult of beer to still 
greater lengths ; he 
has more than Mr. 
Chesterton's nose for 
a Jew; he thinks still 
more meanly of our 
public institutions and 
public men ; he is yet 
more convinced that 
this country is heading 
straight for slavery, if 
it has not already got 
there, B u t Mr . Bel loc , 
with his partly French 
blood, his military 
training, his emphatic 
and dictatorial char- 
acter, and his over- 
logical mind, is, if not 
a more hearty fighter, 
at any rate a less good- 
humoured one. 

Mr. Belloc has a knack of saying wounding 
things in the most wounding way. Even 
in his nonsense- verses there is almost 
always some little venom clinging to the 
point. His political satires and denuncia- 
tions are downright inhuman, and occa- 
sionally might be called mde if one did not 
understand that French side of him which 
will allow of as little compromise with an 
adversary as with an idea, Mr, Belloc 's 
ideas being very numerous, it follows in 
such circumstances that those he deems 
enemies are not few, and it is rather remark- 
able that during ail these years his friendship 
for Mr. Chesterton, so totally unlike him 
in character, ha? remained constant. But 
there is another Belloc besides the political 
bravo, a creature of gallant song and healthy 
fancy, the lover of the open road and the 
cosy inn, and when common feeling for 
such things have joined these twain what 
man or thing shall put them asunder ? 

Of totally different kind are two other 

" Mr. Chesterton, inadequately sheltered by a hansom cab, used to 
be one o( the sights of Fleet Street." 

swashbucklers of the printed page- If 
Mr. Kipling makes play with a cunning 
Eastern scimitar, if Mn Chesterton uses a 
great claymore, which he swings with the 
ease of a walking-stick, if Mr. Belloc 's 
weapon is the straight Roman blade of 
logic tempered and sharpened with fanati- 
cism, the methods of Mr. Bernard Shaw 
and Mr. H. G, Wells are those of the newer 
warfare of chemistry* Mr, Shaw fights 
with acids and gases. His method resembles 
that by which the miner extracts gold from 
quartz. Here is a seemingly obdurate 
block of matter, capable of blunting any 
cutting instrument used on it* But after 
some chemical preparation has been spirted 
against it for a certain time the quartz 
begins to get spongy, it disintegrates, and 
finally it can be crumbled to pieces between 
the fingers. It is an intellectual solvent 
of this kind that Mr. Shaw applies to any- 
thing he wants to attack : things great 
and solid, like onthodox literature, the 



Writers on the War-Path 

Church, the public schools, the institutions 
of war and diplomacy, and society itself. 
He does not denounce what he considers to 
be an evil ; he simply labours to make it 
ridiculous as well as hateful. The Church- 
man, opposing divorce, felt that he had 
said the last word when he remarked that 
marriages were made in Heaven, and de- 
clared that whom God hath joined no man 
might put asunder. Mr. Shaw, through, 
the mouth of an extremely typical bishop, 
suggested that it was not God, but only 
Mr. Simpkins, late an undistinguished under- 
graduate of Keble, not specially remarkable 
for either piety or learning, who did the 

THE Anti-Socialist, as Mr. Chesterton has 
pointed out, said, coolly, " Our system 
may not be a perfect system, but it 
works." Bernard Shaw replied, even more 
coolly, " It may be a perfect system, for all I 
know or care, but it does not work." The 
Vivisectionist claimed that the sacrifice of 
animals was necessary to science. Bernard 
Shaw simply replied, " But yours is not a 
science.; it is simply a series of more or less 
clumsy guesses." Other great geniuses have 
dwelt on the horrors of war, but depressed 
more than they impressed. Mr. Shaw made 
war ridiculous as well as hateful. 

A merry rebel is the most dangerous of all 
rebels. Mr. Shaw's gift of merriment need 
not be insisted on ; his theatre audiences are 
proof sufficient. In lesser matters he is 
equally far from conformity. As a fanatical 
vegetarian he will not take a meal where 
people feast on " dead animals," and declares 
that the time will come when " no gentleman 
will eat butter." He was once invited to 
dinner by Lady Randolph Churchill. " Cer- 
tainly not," he telegraphed. " What have I 
done to provoke such an attack on my well- 
known habits ? " The reply is said to have 
been caustic ; somewhat on these lines : 
44 Know nothing of your habits. Hope they 
are not so bad as your manners." His 
refusal of an invitation to the Rodin dinner 
was more gracious. "So far as I am con- 
cerned," he wrote, " the banquet is super- 
fluous. I have already taken measures to 
secure my immortality by binding it to that 
of Rodin. Henceforward in every encyclo- 
paedia you will find, 4 G. B. S. : Subject of a 
bust by Rodin, otherwise unknown ! ' " 

Fighting things and people — the capitalist 
system, the marriage laws, the academic 
view of all the arts, the Shakespeare idolatry, 
doctors, school teachers, soldiers, fellow- 
Socialists, and Mr. Chesterton — is Mr. Shaw's 
only interest in the literary life. He cares a 
lot for words as things to pelt his opponents 
with, but has no joy in them for themselves. 
For art's sake, he once said, he would not be 

Digitized by CiOOQlC 

at the trouble to write a line. Yet he has a 
very high opinion of his own works, and 
complained during the war that one, " of the 
greatest value to society," was delayed 
through lack of paper. And he had sufficient 
of the artist's pride to refuse a large sum — 
it is said two hundred thousand pounds — 
offered for film rights in all his plays. " Film- 
ing," he said, " kills a play stone dead, and 
should therefore be applied to the corpses of 
plays that have had their run. Mine are im- 
mortal." It was probably the desire to be 
" agin " everybody that was responsible for 
Mr. Shaw's attitude during the war, an atti- 
tude equally hostile to the Pacifist and to 
the ordinary patriot. He infuriated the one 
by saying that it was absolutely essential to 
cure Germany of a " romantic dream," and 
the other by such remarks as that he made 
in France when told to put on his tin hat in 
entering a shrapnel-swept area. " No," he 
said, " if they do me in, then there's no 
gratitude in this world." Mr. Shaw him- 
self could not be wholly ungrateful to the 
Germans, for it was in Germany that he was 
most considered, not only as a wit, but as a 
great thinker. 

MR. SHAW'S main weapon is the solvent 
of wit ; that of Mr. H. G. Wells is less 
easily described. He has all the tricks 
of his father, the Kent bowler, and many more 
peculiarly his own. But perhaps his most 
useful quality in controversy is simply that 
of making his point crystal clear. Mr. Wells 
can describe a world existing in his imagina- 
tion much better than any other writer can 
describe the world he lives in. One of his 
" land iron-clads," the original of the tank — 
" something between a big blockhouse and a 
giant dish-cover " — is made to the reader 
as familiar as a toasting-fork. His monsters 
are more real than most novelists' men and 
women. It has been remarked that, while 
other romancers dealing with the moon 
treated it as merely another earth, Wells 
made his lunar beings as moony as we are 
earthy. The gift is so great and obvious that 
we notice it no more than most great and 
obvious things. But it has an enormous 
effect in bringing conviction. With most 
other Socialistic writers we have a mere 
theory of Socialism : a thing no more 
moving than a proposition in Euclid or 
Ricardo's theory of rent. Others, more 
gifted, give us a sort of ground-plan of the 
Socialistic State. Wells shows us the streets 
of the new City Beautiful, and the men and 
women walking about them, takes us into 
the houses and shows us exactly how they 
are furnished, and even the pattern of the 
shower-bath, tells us what people of the 
new world think and say and do — in a word, 
makes them just as much alive as the people 


E. T. Raymond 


of to-day. One may suspect that many of 
his visions are mirages, but it needs a strong 
effort of the will to realize that " the cloud- 
capped towers, the gorgeous palaces " of the 
State as he foresees it are but ,£ such stuff 
as dreams are made on." 

Probably Mr. Wells is at the top of his 
powers as a propagandist when he is least 
conscious of propaganda. But in truth his 
whole mind is so infected with the spirit of 
revolution that he takes quite naturally the 
subversive side. It is enough for him that 

perfectibility of the species, he is tremens 
dously conscious of the imperfections of 
everybody now living, and cannot forgive 
most people for being what they are- Thus 
he disagrees as profoundly with fellow- 


Put a fountain-pen in his hand and a pot of tea by his side at three o'clock in the morning, 
and there is no feat of literary derring-do of which Mr. Wells is not capable/* 

anything is. unquestioned ; automatically he 
begins to question it. Even Mr. Shaw is not 
quite so catholic in his antipathies. For 
Mr, Wells objects, on the whole, not only to 
human institutions, like the monarchy and 
" the blackmail of the Greek language 
specialist " — " classical education sticks like 
a cancer in the public-school time- table "■ — - 
but to human nature itself, Human nature 
is far too untidy, sloppy, unreasonable, stupid, 
and sentimental for Mr. Wells, and he values 
Socialism not so much for its own sake as 
because he sees in it a chance of wholesale 
and fundamental change. Believing in the 

Socialists as with the outer barbarian. His 
great controversy with the Fabians is still 
remembered. It was their opinion that 
Mr. Shaw was too heavy argumentative 
metal for him : probably Mr. Wells takes a 
different view, but it must be said that on 
his feet he is not at his best. For he has a 
thin voice, and an unimpressive figure, and 
lacks the arts of the bom manager of an 
audience. But put a fountain-pen in his 
hand and a pot of tea by his side at three 
o'clock in the morning, and there is no feat 
of literary derring-do of which he is not 
capable. * 




XCUSE me, but could you give me 
some idea as to where I am ? I 
have a shrewd notion that it's 

Devonshire, but " 

The speaker, 

tiolding a dilapi- 
dated cap in his 

hand, broke oS 

as the girl sat 

up and looked 

at him. He was 

a dishevelled- 
looking object, 

covered with 

dust, an d — 

romance may be 

great, but truth 

is greater — it 

was only too ob- 
vious to the girl 

that he was very 

hot. Perspira- 
tion ran in 

trickles down his 

face, ploughing 

dark furrows 

through the 

thick stratum of 

road dust which 

otherwise ob- 
scured his fea- 
tures. His collar 

was open, his 

sleeves rolled 

back from his 

wrists, and on 

his back was 

strapped a small 

knapsack : An 

unlit pipe, which 

he had removed 

from his mouth 

on speaking to 

her, in one hand, 

and a long walk- 
ing-stick in the 

other, completed 

the picture, 
" You don't 

look as if you'd 

been flying," she remarked, dispassionately. 
"It's Devonshire all right." 

*' That's a relief, 1 J She had a fleeting 
glimpse of a flash of white teeth as he smiled. 
" I had an idea it might be Kent. Or even 

Excuse me t but could you give me some idea, af to where I am > * The 

copy^, J ^ b >' »■ c WWHEITYOF MICHIGAN 

H. C. McNeile ("Sapper") 

Have you ever been on a. walking 


tour ? ' 

f That's what you're doing, is it ? " 
* You know," remarked the man, 4t 1 
think even Watson would regard you with 
scorn. And our one and only Sherlock would 
burst Into tears/ 1 He leaned over the rail- 
ings and commenced to fill his pipe. The 
little garden in which the girl was sitting 
seemed delightfully cool and shady ; the 
girl herself, in her muslin frock, looking at 
him with an amused twinkle in her eves 

girl sat up and looked at him. He was a dishevelled -looking objscfc, covered with dust " 

VoL Ik.- 3. 

by LiOOgl< 



A Payment On Account 

seemed almost too good to be true. After 
that interminable road, with the sun beating 
down from a cloudless sky. With a sigh of 
relief he passed the back of his hand across 
his forehead, and the girl laughed. 

*• I wouldn't do it by bits if I were you. 
It makes you look rather like a zebra." 

" Don't mock at me," he implored, " or I 
shall burst into tears. It's the very first 
time I've ever done anything of this sort. I 
promise you. I will go farther. It's the 
very last as well." 

M But if you don't like walking — why 
walk ? " 

" How like a woman ! " He fumbled in 
his pocket for a box of matches and lit his 
pipe. " How exactly like ! Have you never 
felt an irresistible temptation to do some- 
thing wild and desperate ? Something which 
is painted in glowing colours by some scoun- 
drel, who revenges himself on humanity by 
foully inducing innocent people to follow his 
advice ? " 

" I once tried keeping bees," she mur- 
mured, thoughtfully. 

' There you are ! " exclaimed the man, 
triumphantly. " You see you are in no 
position to point the finger of scorn at me* 
You were led away by fictitious rubbish on 
the bee as a household pet. You expected 
honey : you obtained stings. I was likewise 
led away by a scoundrel who wrote on the 
delights of walking. He especially roused 
my expectation by the number of times he 
threw himself down on the soft, sweet-smell- 
ing turf while the gentle wind played round 
his temples and the lazy beat of the breakers 
came from the distant Atlantic. I tried 
that exercise the very first day. Net result : 
I landed on a thistle and winded myself." 

She gurgled gently. " At any rate, I'll bet 
he told you that you ought to come with a 

" Wrong again. He especially stipulated 
that you should have no set route. Just 
walk and walk ; and then, I suppose, when 
a kindly death intervenes, your relatives can't 
find you, and your funeral expenses fall on 
the parish in which you expire." 

He straightened up as the door of the house 
opened and a charming, grey-haired woman 
came slowly down the path. She glanced 
at him quickly — a courteous but shrewd look ; 
then she looked at the girl. 

44 Sheila, dear, who ? " 

" A gentleman on a walking tour, mother, 
who has lost his way." 

M You're not far from Umberleigh," said 
the elder woman. " Where are you making 
for ? " 

" Nowhere in particular, as I've been 

explaining to your daughter, madam," 

smiled the man. " Finally, however, I shall 

take the train and arrive in London and 

Di -~ KKV^jlC 

slaughter the man who wrote the article 
which appeared in the paper." 

" Sounds like the house that Jack built," 
laughed the girl. " Anyway, you'd better 
stop to lunch." 

The man glanced at her mother, who 
seconded the invitation with a gracious 

" My name is Hewson," he remarked. 
" Charles Hewson." He glanced at them as 
he spoke, and gave a little sigh of relief : 
evidently the name meant nothing to them. 
" And I don't always look like a zebra." 

He followed them slowly up the shady 
path, and the girl laughed again* 

" Doesn't matter what you look like," 
she cried, " as long as you know something 
about postage-stamps." 

'• Do you collect ? " he asked. 

" No — but Daddy does. He's partially 
insane on the subject." 

" Sheila ! '* reproved her mother. 

" Well, ' he is, darling, you know. You 
always say so yourself." 

For a moment the elder woman's eyes met 
the man's over the girl's head. And in 
that momentary glance the whole story of 
the house and its inmates seemed to stand 
revealed. The perfect love and happiness 
that breathed through the place ; the cer- 
tainty that it was the girl who was really 
the head of the little kingdom, with a sweet 
mother and an unpractical father as her 
adoring subjects ; the glorious unworldliness 
of his surroundings struck the man like a 
blow. The contrast was so wonderful — the 

contrast to his own life. If only Ua- 

consciously his glance rested on the slim 

figure in the muslin frock. If only 

Why not ? 

*' I beg your pardon." He turned apolo- 
getically to the mother. 

" I only said that our name was Crossley, 
Mr. Hewson. And I wondered if you would 
care to have a bath." 

Charles Hewson looked at her gravely. 
" Are you always so charming, Mrs. Crossley, 
to the stranger within your gates ? Espe- 
cially when he's a dirty-looking tramp like 
me." Then he smiled quickly; it was a 
trick of his, that sudden, fleeting smile. 
" I can think of nothing I'd like more than 
a bath, if I might so far trespass on your 


LUNCH confirmed his diagnosis of the 
Crossley household. The girl's father 
fitted in exactly with his mental picture; 
an utterly lovable, white-haired man of about 
sixty, and as unsophisticated as a child. 
Time, and the stress of things worldly, 
seemed to have passed over the little house 
near Umberteigft, leaving it untouched and 


H. C. McNeile ("-Sapper") 


scathless. And once again the contrast 
struck him, and he wondered, just a little 
bitterly, whether after all it was worth it. 
The instant decisions, the constant struggle, 
the ceaseless strain of his life — and then, 
this. Country cousins, vegetating in obscu- 
rity. It struck Charles Hewson that he 
wouldn't object to being a vegetable for 
a while. He was tired, and he realized 
it for the first time. The last year had 
tried even him. 

It was a sudden impulse that made him 
suggest it, just as luncheon was over. 

" Is there a decent inn her », Mrs. Crossley, 
where I could put up for a bit ? I've fallen 
in love with this place, and I want a 

" You look tired," she answered, kindly. 
" And this is a wonderful place for a rest 
cure. But I'm afraid the inn is a long 
way off. If you care to "—she paused for 
a moment — " we could put you up for a 
few days." 

' 1 think you're the kindest people I've 
ever met," said Hewson, and for a moment 
his eyes ceased to look tired. " And I 
warn you I'm not going to give you a chance 
of reconsidering your offer." 

" You'll find it very dull," warned the 

He laughed as they rose from the table. 
•' I'm open to a small bet that you'll have 
to drive me away. I shall become a fixture 
about the house." 

HE followed them into the low, old- 
fashioned hall, and stood for a while 
drinking in the homeliness of it all. 
That was what it was — homely; and in 
London Charles Hewson lived in rooms and 
fed at his club or a restaurant. 

" I don't know if you're any judge of 
pewter, Mr. Hewson," said his host, " but 
we've got some nice bits here and in my 

" One step from that to postage-stamps," 
laughed the girl. " You've got to come and 
do a job of work in the garden later, Mr. 
Hewson, don't forget. I'll come and rescue 
you in half an hour or so." 

He watched her go upstairs, then with 
a little sigh of pure joy he followed the old 
man into his study. 

" Are you interested in philately, by any 
chance ? " inquired Mr. Crossley, eagerly. 

Hewson shook his head. "I'm afraid 
I know nothing about it," he answer ed» 
" I was once commissioned by a young 
nephew to send him all the stamps I could 
find which had pretty pictures on them. 
You know, harbours, and mountains, and 
elephants. I found them in all sorts of 
outlandish places when I was going round 
the world." He gave one of his quick 

Digitized by lot 

smiles. " But I'm afraid that is the extent 
of my knowledge." 

" The schoolboy collection." The other 
waved a tolerant hand. " Now I'm sure 
that that would have bored him." 

With reverent hands he lifted a card 
and handed it to Hewson. " Look at that, 
sir ; look at that. The complete set of New 
Brunswick — the first issue, unused. 

Hewson gazed dispassionately at ten 
somewhat blotchy pieces of* paper, and 
refrained from heretical utterance. To liis 
Philistine eye the set he had bought in 
Samoa or elsewhere depicting jaguars and 
toucans were infinitely more pleasing. 

" Valuable, I suppose ? " he hazarded. 

The other waved a deprecating hand. 
"Several hundred — if I chose to sell. Merci- 
fully," he went on after a little pause, " it 
wasn't necessary." 

For a second Hewson's shrewd eyes were 
fixed on him : then he resumed his study of 
the rarities. Money trouble, was there ? 

44 Now this was unique — this set." His 
host was looking regretfully at another card. 
" Mauritius. And then I had to dispose of 
the penny orange-red. Worth the better 
part of a thousand pounds alone." He 
laid down the card. " Oh ! I do hope I 
shall be able to get it back. I sold it to 
a dealer in the Strand, and I told him at 
the time that I should want to buy it back 
again. That was a month ago, and I thought 
I should have been able to by now." 

Once again Hewson's keen eyes were 
fixed on the other. 

" Expecting a legacy ? " he remarked, 

" A legacy ! Oh ! no ! " The old man 
smiled. " But I had a very wonderful 
chance, given me by an acquaintance, of 
doubling my small capital." For a moment 
Hewson stopped smoking : chances of doub- 
ling capital are not handed round as a rule 
by acquaintances. " And I seem to have 
done it," continued Mr. Crossley, rubbing 
his hands together. " I seem to have 
turned my five thousand pounds into ten. 
In a month. Isn't it wonderful ? " 

" Very," commented the other. " Have 
you got the money ? " 

" No : that's what I can't understand. 
I suppose it must be something to do with 
settling day — or whatever they call it." He 
beamed at his listener. "I'm afraid I'm 
very ignorant on these matters, Mr. Hewson, 
but it seems almost too good to be true. I 
wanted the extra money so much — to give 
my little girl a better time. It's dull for 
her here, though she never complains. And 
if only I could get it now, I could buy 
back that penny Mauritius, and invest the 
other nine thousand." In his excitement he 
walked up and down the room, while his 



A Payment On Account 

listener stared fixedly at a number of 
blotchy pieces of paper on a card. " Do 
you know anything about stocks and shares, 
Mr. Hewson ? " 

" Quite a lot," said Hewson. " In my — 
er — small way I dabble in them." 
, " Ah ! then perhaps you can tell me when 
I can expect the money." Mr. Crossley sat 
down at his desk, and opened a drawer. "It 
was a month ago that I paid five thousand 
pounds for shares in the Rio Lopez Mine." 
- " In the what ? " Hewson almost shouted. 

" The Rio Lopez Mine," repeated the other. 
" You've heard of it, of course. The shares 
were standing, so my friend told me, at two 
pounds, so I got two thousand five hundred 
shares. Now, yesterday I happened to buy 
the Times, and I looked up the Stock Ex- 
change quotations. You can judge of my 
delight, Mr. Hewson, when I actually saw 
that the shares were standing at four pounds 
three shillings. M 

#l Rio Lopez four pounds I " said Hewson, 
dazedly. " May I see the paper ? " 

He took it and glanced at the Supple- 
mentary List. 

" Mines — Miscellaneous. 
" Rio Lopez Deep — 4/3." • 

THE old man was still talking gaily on, 
but Hewson hardly heard what he said. 
From outside the lazy hum of a summer 
afternoon came softly through the open 
window, and after a while he laid down 
the paper and commenced to refill his 
pipe. Such colossal innocence almost 
staggered him. That there could be any- 
body in the world who did not know that 
the figures meant four shillings and three- 
pence, left him bereft of speech. And 
then his feeling of amazement gave way 
to one of bitter anger against the scoundrel 
who had unloaded a block of shares in a 
wild -cat mine at the top of an extremely 
shady boom, on such a man as Mr. Crossley. 

" Well, when do you think I may expect 
the money ? " The question roused him 
from his reverie. 

" It's hard to say, Mr. Crossley," remarked 
Hewson, deliberately. " Different firms have 
different arrangements, you know." 

" Of course — of course. I'm such a baby 
in these things. But I do want to get my 
}>enny Mauritius back before it's sold." 

Hewson bent forward suddenly, ostensibly 
to examine his pipe. For the first time for 
many years he found a difficulty in speaking ; 
there had been no room for sentiment in his 
career. Then he straightened up. 

" I quite understand, Mr. Crossley," he 
said, slowly. " And perhaps the best thing 
to do would be to put the matter in my hands. 
It has occurred to me since lunch that I've 

by t^ 



really got no clothes at all here. And so I 
thought I'd run up to Town and get a few 
and then return. While I'm up there I 
could look into things for you." 

** But I really couldn't worry you, Mr. 
Hewson," protested the other. 

" No worry at all. It's my work. I shall 
charge you commission." Hewson was light- 
ing his pipe. " You have the certificate, I 

" I've this paper," answered Mr. Crossley. 
" Is that what you mean ? " 

" That's it. Will you trust it to me ? I 
can give you any reference you like, if you 
care to come with me as far as Barnstaple. 
They know me at the bank. I shall have 
to join the main line there." 

" Well, perhaps " The old man paused 

doubtfully. " You see, Mr. Merrison told 
me to keep this most carefully." 

" Was Mr. Merrison the man who sold you 
the shares ? " 

" Yes. Mr. Arthur Merrison, of 20, Phimp- 
ton Street, in the City. He was stopping 
down here for a few days, and he dined with 
us once or twice." 

Hewson rose abruptly and went to the 
window. He had not the pleasure of Mr. 
Arthur Merrison's acquaintance, but he was 
already tasting the pleasures of his firat — 
and last — interview with that engaging 
gentleman. Dined — had he ? 

" Will you come over with me to Barn- 
staple this afternoon ? " 

" Good heavens ! Daddy ! " came a voice 
from outside. " What are you going to 
Barnstaple for ? You know this heat will 
upset you." 

Hewson swung round as the girl came in 
from the garden. She was wearing a floppy 
sun-bonnet, and it suddenly struck him that 
she was one of the loveliest things he had 
ever seen. No wonder the old chap had 
tried to get a bit more money with the idea 
of giving her a good time. 

" I've got to go up to London, Miss Crossley 

" was it his imagination, or did her face 

fall a little — " to get some more clothes. 
And there's a little matter of business I'm 
going to attend to for your father. The 
point is that he doesn't know me — none of 
you know me. And in the hard-headed, 
suspicious world in which I live, before you 
entrust a valuable document to another 
man you want to know something about 
him. Now, the bank manager at Barnstaple 
does know me, and I suggested that your 
father should come over and see him." 

" It sounds very mysterious," laughed the 
girl. " But all I know is that if Daddy goes 
to Barnstaple in this heat, he'll have the 
most awful head. Suppose — " she paused 
doubtfully — " suppose I came ? Daddy could 
give me the document, and then when I'd 


H. C. McNeile (" Sapper ") 


Hewson swung round as the girl came in from the garden, and it suddenly struck him 
that she was one of the loveliest things he had ever .seen." 




A Payment On Account 

Been the bank manager I could give it to 

Hewson turned away to hide the too 
obvious delight he felt at the suggestion, 
and glanced inquiringly at his host. 

" Perhaps that would be the best solution, 
Mr. Crossley," he murmured. " If it isn't 
troubling your daughter too much." 

The old man chuckled. " If she only 
knew what it was for, she wouldn't mind the 
trouble. It's a secret, don t forget, Mr. 
Hewson. Now, girlie, take that envelope, 
and when the bank manager has told you 
that our kind friend here isn't a burglar, or 

an escaped convict— " he chuckled again 

— " give it to him to take to London. But 
you're not to look inside." 

She kissed him lightly, and turned to 

" We can just catch the local train," she 
said, a trifle abruptly. " We'll go through 
the short cut." 

She was silent during the walk to the 
station, and it was not until they were in the 
train that she looked at him steadily and 

" What is this mystery, Mr. Hewson ? " 

" I think your father said it was a secret, 
didn't he ? " he answered, lightly. 

" Is it something to do with money ? " 

" It is." 

She stared out of the window : then im- 
pulsively she laid a hand on his arm. 

" He's such a darling," she burst out, 
" but he's so innocent. He doesn't know 
anything about money or the world." 

" Do you ? " asked Hewson, gently. 

" That doesn't matter. A girl needn't. 
But I know he's just mad to get more money 
— not for himself — but for me. He wants to 
give me a good time — like other girls, he 
says." She paused a moment, and frowned. 
At There was a man here — a few weeks ago — 
and Daddy met him. He came to dinner. 
I didn't trust him, Mr. Hewson ; there was 
something — oh ! I don't know. I suppose 
I'm very ignorant myself. But I'm certain 
that he persuaded Daddy to do something 
with his money. He was always going to 
the bank, and sending registered letters, 
after the man left. And he's been worried 
ever since — until yesterday — when he re- 
covered all his old spirits." 

The train was already running into 
Barnstaple — the quickest journey that 
Charles Hewson had ever made in his 

" I don't think," he said, gravely, " that 
I shall be letting out the secret if I tell you 
that my visit to London concerns that man, 
and some money he invested for your father. 
There's a little delay in the business — and 
I'm going to see about it." 

They walked out of the station towards 

Digitized by Lt< 

the bank, the girl clasping the precious 
envelope tightly. 

" I want to see the manager," said Hewson 
to the cashier. " Hewson is my name." 

With astonishing alacrity the manager 
appeared from his office. 

" Come in, Mr. Hewson — come in." He 
stepped aside as the girl, followed by 
Hewson, entered his sanctum. 

" I am doing some business for Mr. Crossley, 
of Umberleigh," said Hewson, quietly. " This 
is his daughter, Miss Crossley. It concerns 
some shares — the Certificate of which I pro- 
pose to take to London with me. Would 
you be good enough to assure Miss Crossley 
that I am a fit and proper person to be 
entrusted with such a matter ? I happen to 
be a stranger to them." 

The manager's face had changed through 
various stages of bewilderment while Hewson 
was speaking, but he was saved the necessity 
of an immediate answer by the girl. Charles 
Hewson — the Charles Hewson — coming to 
him to be vouched for ! 

" This is the paper." The girl handed it 
over to him, and a little dazedly he took the 
certificate from the envelope. 

" A very admirable security," said Hewson, 
deliberately, " bought by Mr. Crossley a 
month ago." 

" Very admirable ! " spluttered the man- 
ager, only to relapse into silence under the 
penetrating stare of Hewson 's eye. 

" And if you will just vouch for me to 
Miss Crossley, I don't think we need detain 
you further." 

" With pleasure." Matters were com- 
pletely beyond him : but, at any rate, he 
could do that. " You can place things in 
Mr. Hewson's hands with absolute confidence. 
Miss Crossley." 

" Thank you," said the girl, and they all 
rose. He opened the door and she passed 
into the bank. For one moment the two 
men were alone, and Hewson seized the 
manager by the arm. 

" Not a word," he whispered. " They 
don't know who I am. Father been swindled 
by some swine in London." 

Nodding portentously, the worthy manager 
followed them to the door. Assuredly one of 
the most remarkable episodes that had come 
his way, during thirty years' experience. 
Rio Lopez ! Two thousand five hundred of 
them ! And he was still staring dazedly at 
a placard extolling Exchequer Bonds, which 
adorned his office wall, when the London 
train steamed slowly out of the station. Its 
departure had been to the casual eye quite 
normal : but the casual eye is, as its name 
implies, casual. The departure had been 
far from normal. 

It was just as the guard was waving his 
flag that a man n leaning out of the window 


H. C. McNeile (" Sapper ") 


of a first-class carriage, spoke to a girl 
standing on the platform. 

" You say you didn't trust the man, Miss 
Crossley. Do you — trust me ? " 

" Naturally," she answered, demurely, 
" after what the bank manager said." 

"It rests on the bank manager, does it ? " 

She blushed faintly. " No, Mr. Hewson, 
it doesn't. One doesn't need a bank manager 
to confirm — a certainty." 

And then the fool engine-driver had started 
his beastly machine. But to call it a normal 
departure is obviously absurd. 

" X^OOD morning. Mr. Merrison, I 

Ij believe ? " 

Hewson entered the office at 20, 
Plumpton Street, and bowed slightly to the 
man at the desk. As he had expected, the 
type was a common one — one, incidentally, 
with which he had had a good deal to do 
himself. Mr. Arthur Merrison could be 
placed at once in the category of men who 
consider that in business everything is fair, 
and that if they can get the better of another 
man the funeral is his. And as an outlook 
on life there is nothing much to be said 
against it, provided the other man is of the 
same kidney. 

' Yes." Merrison indicated a chair. 

"What can I "do for you, Mr. " He 

paused, interrogatively. 

" I have come to have a short talk with 
you on a little matter of business." Hewson 
took the proffered chair, while Merrison 
glanced at him covertly. Who the deuce 
was the fellow ? His face seemed vaguely 

" Delighted ! " he murmured. " Have a 
cigar ? " 

" Thank you — no. I have just come from 
Umberleigh, in Devonshire, Mr. Merrison." 

A barely perceptible change passed over 
the other's face. 

" Indeed," he said, easily. " I was there 
myself a little while ago," 

"So I understood," remarked Hewson. 
" A Mr. Crossley told me that you had been 
good enough to sell him some shares while 
you were there — a packet of Rio Lopez, to 
be exact." 

" I did," answered Merrison. " Though 
I hardly see what concern it is of yours." 

" All in good time," said Hewson, taking 
the certificate from his pocket. " Two 
thousand five hundred, I see, when they were 
standing at two pounds. And to-day they're 
a shade over four shillings — to-morrow, 
quite possibly, sixpence." 

" Everything is down," remarked Merrison 
with a wave of his hand. " Sorry for Mr. 

" So am I," said the other. " It seems 

hard luck on an innocent old man like that 
to be left to carry the baby. He apparently 
placed such reliance on your judgment, Mr. 
Merrison. Moreover, I gather you dined 
with him two or three times." 

w Well, what if I did ? " He leaned back 
in his chair impatiently. " Might I suggest 
that time is money to some of us, and that 
I'm rather busy this morning? I'd be 
obliged if you'd get to the point." 

" Certainly," said Hewson, quietly. " I 
have a nice little bunch of two thousand five 
hundred Rio Lopez which I shall be de- 
lighted to sell you, on behalf of Mr. Crossley 
— at two pounds a share." 

For a moment or two Mr. Merrison seemed 
to have difficulty in breathing. 

" Buy Rio Lopez at two ! " he gasped. 
" Are you insane ? " 

" Not at all," murmured Hewson, lighting 
a cigarette. " That is my offer." 

" Good morning," laughed the other. " You 
know the way out, don't you ? And another 
time, my dear sir, you'd better learn a little 
more about the ways of finance beforj you 
waste your own and other people's time 
coming up from the wilds of Devon." He 
pulled a paper towards hitfi and picked up 
his pen. It struck him as one of the richest 
things he'd ever heard — a jest altogether 
after his own heart. And it was just as the 
full beauty of it was sinking in, that his eye 
caught the card which his visitor had pushed 
along the writing-desk. 

" Mr. Charles Hewson." Blinking slightly 
he stared at it : then he put down his pen. 
" Mr. Charles Hewson." 

4 You may know the name, Mr. Merrison," 
remarked the other, quietly. " And I can 
assure you that your solicitude for my 
knowledge of finance touches me deeply." 

" But, I don't understand, Mr. Hewson. 
I had no idea who you were, but now that I 
do know it makes your suggestion even more 

"In an ordinary way of business, cer- 
tainly," agreed Hewson. " This is not 
quite ordinary. Without mincing words, I 
consider that you played Mr. Crossley an 
extremely dirty trick — considering that he'd 
opened his house to you, and was quite 
obviously as ignorant of business as a child. 
Why — the poor old chap saw the price in 
the paper the other day and thought they 
were standing at four pounds three shillings." 
He was staring at Merrison with level eyes 
as he spoke. " I give you the chance of 
returning him the money he gave to you. 
If you do — the matter is ended. If you 
don't — I shall pay it myself. But— and 
this is the point, Mr. Merrison, which you 
had better consider — if I pay that money, I 
shall recover it from you. Is it worth your 
while to have me for an enemy ? As surely 

by L^OOgle 




A Payment On Account 

as I'm sitting here, by the time I've finished 
with you, you'll not have lost five thousand 
—you'll have lost fifty." 

" It wouldn't be worth your while," 
blustered Merrison, though the hand which 
held his cigar shook a little. 

" Worth is a comparative term," said 
Hewson, calmly. " Financially, I agree : 
you're not big enough to worry over. But 
it will afford me great pleasure and amuse- 
ment, Mr. Merrison — and from that point 
of view it will be worth while." He took 
out his watch. " I'll give you two minutes 
to decide." 

He got up and strolled round the room, 
glancing every now and then at the man 
sitting at the desk. In advance, he knew 
the answer : any man in Merrison's place 
would think twice and then again before he 
deliberately took up such a challenge. And 
quite accurately he read the thoughts that 
were passing in the other's mind. Dare he 
gamble on the possibility of Hewson — as 
time went by — forgetting his threat, and 
letting the thing drop ? That was the crux. 
It was an insignificant amount to a man like 
Hewson, but — was it the money that was at 
the bottom of it ? While a man in Hewson's 
position might well forget five thousand 
pounds, there might be some other factor 
which would not slip his mind. It suddenly 
occurred to Mr. Arthur Merrison that there 
was a singularly attractive girl in the Crossley 
household. And if she was the driving 
factor. . . . One thing was perfectly cer- 
tain : he would willingly pay five thousand 
to escape a relentless vendetta with Charles 
Hewson as his enemy. It was no idle threat 
on the latter's part : if he chose to he could 
ruin him. 

" Well ? " With a snap Hewson closed 
his watch. " What is it to be ? " 

By way of answer Merrison took out his 

" Good. Make your cheque payable to 
Mr. Crossley, and make it for ten thousand. 
I will give you a cheque for five. You can 
notify the company as to the transfer." 

He drew his own cheque-book from his 

" And another time, Mr. Merrison, leave 
the Crossleys of this world alone. Good- 

Mr. Arthur Merrison was still staring 
dully out of the window when Charles 
Hewson entered a stamp shop in the Strand 
in search of a penny Mauritius. 


CAN hardly believe it. In just over 
a month. And the stamp as well. 
Mr. Hewson — I can never thank you 

Back in the sunny study at Umberleigh, 

Digitized by (jOOglc 

Mr. Crossley stared dazedly — first at his 
precious stamp, then at the cheque. 

" Ten thousand pounds ! I must write 
him a letter and thank him." 

"I'm sure Mr. Merrison would like that,", 
murmured Hewson. " But if I may give 
you a word of advice, Mr. Crossley, I wouldn't 
try a gamble like that again. Mines are 
precarious things — very precarious." 

" You mean, I might have lost my money?" 
said the old man, nervously. 

" Such things have been known to happen," 
said Hewson, gravely. " By the way — is 
your daughter not at home ? " 

" She has gone over to Barnstaple with 
her mother. I'm expecting them back at 
any moment. Won't they be delighted ? " 
He chuckled gleefully, and produced the 
precious card containing the Mauritius set. 
And with a quiet smile on his face Charles 
Hewson watched him from the depths of 
an armchair. What a child he was : what 
a charming, lovable child. 

" There : the complete set again." In 
triumph he held up the card for Hewson's 
inspection, and at that moment Mrs, Crossley 
and the girl came through the window. 

The good news poured out in a torrent, 
while Hewson stood almost forgotten in the 

Ten thousand pounds — two thousand five, 
hundred shares — capital doubled in a month 
— rand the stamp. The old man brandished 
the cheque in his excitement, and, at length, 
Mrs. Crossley turned to Hewson with a smile. 

" We seem to have entertained an angel 
unawares," and her eyes were a little misty. 
" Thank you, Mr. Hewson." 

M No need to thank me, Mrs. Crossley," he 
laughed. " These things just happen." 

He glanced at the girl, who had so far 
said nothing. She was staring at him 
steadily, and there was no answering smile 
on her face. 

" Did you say two thousand five hundred 
shares, Daddy ? " Her voice was quite 
expressionless, as she turned to her father. 

" That's it, little girl," he cried. " Sold 
at over four pounds a share. Now you'll be 
able to have some more frocks ! " 

He kissed her lovingly, and followed his 
wife from the room, still chuckling and 
rubbing his hands together. 

" Would you explain, please, Mr. Hewson?" 
said the girl, in a flat, dead voice as the door 

<4 Explain, Miss Crossley ! How do you 
mean ? Your father acquired some shares a 
little while ago — two thousand five hundred, 
as he told you — which have just been sold 
at rather over four pounds a share. Hence 
the stamp — and a cheque for ten thousand." 

" I went into the bank at Barnstaple this 
afternoon," ^aid the girl, dully, "and I 

■-■I I '.| 1 1 I M I II" 


H. C. McNeile (« Sapper") 41 


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m fSk^^B i \ Is sP^ - *■ ^ ~i&t^ 

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v*tol ^■.raL 

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1 Oh, stop, please ! h With a little cry that was half a sob she rose, ' Because we offer 

you lunch Mr. Hewscn, it give? yen no right to dare to give my Lilier money/ " 


A Payment On Account 

happened to speak to the cashier. He told 
me who you were. You're a multi-million- 
aire, aren't you ? " 

Charles Hewson shrugged his shoulders. 
" I'm afraid I am," he laughed. " Is that 
what you want me to explain ? " 

" Don't laugh, please," said the girl, 
quietly. " I said that you'd been good 
enough to do some business for us — some- 
thing to do with Rio Lopez Shares. He said 
Good heavens ! Miss Crossley, surely Mr. 
Hewson hasn't put you into Rio Lopez ? ' 
I said, - Why not — aren't they good shares ? ' 
You see, I didn't know what the business 
was you were doing. He said, ' Good ! Why 
the blessed things aren't worth much more 
than the paper they're written on. Standing 
about four shillings, I think.' And now you 
tell me you've sold two thousand five 
hundred of them at over four pounds." 
Slim and erect she stood there facing him. 
41 1 don't know anything about business : 
but I'm not a fool. So will you please 
explain ? " 

If there was anything really in the absent 
treatment business, an unsuspecting and 
well-meaning cashier would have fallen dead 
in the bank at that moment. 

" Will you come into the garden, Miss 
Crossley ? " said Hewson, gravely. " I could 
explain better out of doors." 

In silence she followed him, and they found 
two chairs under a shady tree. 

" IV y| ERRISON ' he be S an - quietly, " the 
IVl man w ^° was d° wn k ere a mon th 
ago, was a pretty smart gentle- 
man. He did a business deal with your 
father which, legally speaking, was quite 
in order. He possessed two thousand five 
hundred Rio Lopez, which, at that time, 
were standing at two pounds. He sold 
those shares to your father, knowing per- 
fectly well that they were only standing at 
such a figure because of a distinctly shady 
artificial boom which had been given them. 
He knew they were bound to slump — that is, 
fall in price. So he — finding your father 
supremely ignorant of finance — unloaded 
those shares on to him, and left him — as the 
saying goes — to carry the baby. In other 
words, shares that your father paid two 
pounds each for, he would only get four 
shillings for to-day. This morning I inter- 
viewed Mr. Merrison in his office. And I 
persuaded him — how, is immaterial — to re- 
fund your father the money. That's all 
there is to it." 

* I see," said the girl. " It was very good 
of you. But if my father only paid two 
pounds for each share — that makes five 
thousand. The cheque he's got is for ten. 
How did he double his capital ? " 
Hewson bit his lip : how indeed ? 

by Google 

" Oh ! please be frank, Mr. Hewson. 
Have you given my father five thousand 
pounds ? " 

His fingers beat a tattoo on the arm of 
his chair. 

" Yes," he said at length. " I have. 
The dear old man thought the shares were 
standing at four pounds : he read the four 
and threepence in the paper as four 
pounds three shillings. And," he turned 
appealingly to the girl, " if you could only 
dimly guess what pleasure it's given me, 
Miss Crossley." * 

" Oh ! stop, please." With a little cry 
that was half a sob she rose. " I suppose 
you meant it for the best : thought you 
were being kind. I don't suppose you 
realized your — your impertinence. Because 
we offer you lunch, Mr. Hewson, it gives you 
no right to dare to give my father money. 
And now it's going to be doubly hard for 
him — when I tell him. He'll be so — so 

She turned away, hiding her face in 
hands, and for a while there was silence in 
the sunny garden. And in that moment 
the man knew that the quest was over, the 
quest — conscious or unconscious, it matters 
not — that has been man's through the ages. 
But no hint of it sounded in his level voice 
as he spoke : the time for that was not yet. 
' And so, Miss Crossley, you propose to 
tell your father ? " 

M What else can I possibly do ? " She 
turned on him indignantly. 

" Of course you must decide," he continued 
quietly. " I quite see how the matter looks 
to you : I wonder if you are being equally 
fair to me. I come here : I meet your 
father. I find that he has been swindled by 
a man in London — a moral swindle only 
possible because of your father's charming 
innocence. I wonder if you can realize what 
the atmosphere of this place means to me — 
an atmosphere which must depend, to a 
large extent, on the happiness and joy of 
you three." 

She was watching him now, and suddenly 
his swift smile flashed out. " Don't you 
understand, Miss Crossley, that all money is 
relative ? I'm going to allude purposely to 
my disgusting wealth. You wouldn't think 
much of paying five shillings for pleasure, 
would you ? Well, five thousand pounds 
means no more to me. And I've bought 
myself pleasure with that money such as I 
don't think you can begin to conceive of." 
Again he smiled : then before she could reply 
he went on. " So I want you to remember, 
when you make your decision, what you are 
going to sacrifice on the altar of pride. My 
feelings don't matter : but are you going to 
deliberately prick the bubble of your father's 
happiness and change him in a moment from 
V-m I Q I n d I iro m 


H. C. McNeile (" Sapper") 


a delighted child into a broken and worried 
old man ? " 

The girl bit her lip and stared over the 
rambling garden with troubled eyes. How 
could she let her father take the money : 
how could she ? And then she heard his 
voice again from close behind her. 

" I'm going back to London," he said, 
deliberately, " and I would ask you to keep 
this as our secret. I hadn't intended to go 
back yet : but now that you have found out 
— perhaps it's better. I'll leave you free to 
puzzle the thing out by yourself : only I 
want to make one condition." 

" What's that ? " whispered the girl. 

" I want to come back for my promised 
visit later." Gently he swung her round 
and his eyes — tender and quizzical — rested 
on the lovely face so close to his. " And 
when I come back, I'm going to ask you a 
question, which, if you can see your way to 
answering with a yes, will make me your 
father's debtor for life. And then we could 
consider the five thousand as a payment on 
account, which would completely and finally 
settle the matter." 

Almost against her will, a faint smile began 
to twitch round the girl's lips. 

" Of course I'm not much good at business, 
as I said, but I didn't know that anybody 
ever paid on account until he had, at any 
rate, the promise of the goods." 

" In these days of competition," murmured 
Hewson, " one sometimes has to pay for the 
right of the first refusal." 

The smile was twitching again. " That 
right is yours without payment." 

" Then I'd better get it over quickly. 
Sheila — will you marry me?" 

" Mr. Hewson — I will not. Where are you 
going ? " 

Charles Hewson turned half-way across 
the lawn. " Up to London. I want to find 
a man there, and give him the best dinner 
he's ever had in his life." 

" What man ? " 

" The sportsman who wrote that article 
about walking tours." It was then the 
smile broke bounds. 

" We've got some topping peaches in the 
garden. - Couldn't you send him some of 
those as — a payment on account ? " 



Select a card from cut the pack, 
Choosing a red one, not a black. 

1. Headless it has to be. or so 

It would be were the head to go. 

2. More than three words, or less than one, 
The apple's product is begun. 

3. With firm conviction we maintain 
A fathom is a piece of chain. 

4. Suggesting road to wealth, a clue 
Provides, a simple task to do. 

5. Her character who will may trace 
Where foes were new though old their face. 

6. Two Western places take ; instead 
Write down his proper name ; behead. 

7. Fluent was one who bore this name : 
For fluid, rearrange the same. 

8. A crater, many miles around : 
In the Apennines it will be found. 


Answers to Acrostic No. 84 should be addressed to the 
Acrostic Editor, The Strand Magazine, Southampton 
Street, Strand, London, W.C2, and must arrive not later 
than by the first post on July 9th. 

by Google 

Two answers may be sent to every light. 
It is essential that solvers, with their answers to this 
acrostic, should send also their real names and addresses. 


to No 82. 



az A 



1 L 



y n G 



ak E 



s pi C 



e v I 



ea R 



n n A 


R ae 

ipberr ie S 


-Light 2. 

It is 

an ill wind tl 

any good. 

6. Evil. 

8. Hannah, Anna. 


to No. 83. 



ar E 



h ee L 



ugen E 



o V 



ehicl E 



ri N 

lat blows no one 
Or, Madam, Ada. 

Notes. — Light 2. Rouen. French, roue, wheel. 
3. Eugene Aram; A.R.A.M., a ram. 4. Love, nothing; 
clover, plover. 6. Ireland, Fair Head, Pat. 

Correspondents who write to the Acrostic Editor and desire 
answers should enclose stamped addressed envelopes with 
their letters, and the A.E. will endeavour to reply. Lack 
of space makes it .mpossible to answer in print. 

Original from 

The purpose of this strange pose will not be apparent until the picture U turned sideways 
and compared with the sketch on the opposite page, 


SINCE the magazine illustrator often 
has to work to time, with editors 
close upon his heels and engravers 
waiting to make the blocks from 
which his drawing will be printed, he 
endeavours always to employ the most 
direct method, and if the subject in hand 
presents comparatively little difficulty, he 
may even dispense with the aid of a model* 
There are, however, many types of illustra- 
tion that call for a considerable amount of 
preparation and not a little ingenuity before 
the artist can put a pencil to paper, and the 
illustrator's path is often beset with obstacles 
of which the reader probably has no idea. 

It is in the posing of models that some of 
the greatest difficulties arise- Many poses 
necessitated by the demands of " action " 
stories are physically impossible for the 
model to maintain for sufficient length of 
time (however experienced he or she may be), 
and it is in this connection that the artist 
is sometimes obliged to resort to a." fake," 

Digitized by GoOQle 

Cushions, planks, mattresses, string, and any 
other oddments that chance to be at hand 
are utilized to obtain the desired effect, and 
although the results often appear extremely 
ludicrous to the observer, they serve the 
required purpose in assisting the artist to 
make a convincing and realistic drawing, 
with the correct lighting, natural folds of the 
drapery and so on, without undue strain 
upon the model. Whenever possible the 
artist prefers to avoid ik faking'* a subject, 
and it must therefore be understood that the 
improvisations referred to in this article are 
not the common order of the day among 
illustrators, neither have they all been in- 
vented by one individual. Rather, they are 
the outcome of the experience of a number 
of artists — composite inventions born of 

As an example of how a seemingly im- 
possible pose may be achieved, the photo- 
graph of the l^dy reclining on the couch 
may be of interest. Her position, though 
Original from 


Chas. Crombie 


perhaps unusual, is perfectly comfortable* 
The arms are supported by cushions* one of 
the feet is held in position by a box, and the 
dress is draped with the aid of string. The 
purpose of this strange pose is not at first 
apparent, but if the picture is turned side- 
ways so that the girls figure is in a standing 
position, and then compared %vith the half- 
finished sketch on this page, it will be seen 
that the artist has obtained all the necessary 
movement required for the illustration of 
a dramatic struggle — a position which the 
model obviously 
could not have 
maintained by 
any other means. 
Two more ex- 
amples of the 
posing of figures 
in action are 
worthy of men- 
tion, both of 
which are com- 
paratively simple 
when the secret is 
revealed. The 
first shows a man 
running, a study 
that is full of 
vigorous m o v e - 
ment — clearly a 
difficult position 
for a model to 
hold for any / 
length of time, / 
Yet by sitting on 
the edge of a chair 
he may be imme- 
diately relieved of 
the strain, and 
can remain in 
position with 
comparative com- 
fort sufficiently 
long for the artist 
to make a rough 
sketch. The 
second is also an 
athletic subject— 
an incident in the 
five mile race at 
the Lancing Col- 
lege sports. Note 
the figure in the 
act of jumping 
the ditch, The 
artist was present 
at the sports, and 
mad e several 
rough sketches on 
the spot, after 
which he returned 
to his studio to 
commence work 

on the drawing. Here he was confronted 
by the problem as to how he might pose 
the model in the position of the jumping 
figure. Theaccompanyingphotographshows 
exactly how this is done. The gentleman 
is kneeling comfortably on a mattress, and 
resting his arm on the bacH of a chair, whilst 
a piece of rope assists him in maintaining the 
position of the left arm. 

On page 6r of this issue there appears 
an illustration in which the principal figure is 
a girl in the act of making a forward drive in 

A Half-finished drawing depicting a dramatic struggle. The figure of 
the girl was posed aa shown in lh<* piece ding picture, 


4 6 





a game of tennis. Here again the 
model was posed with the aid of 
cushions, much after the style of 
those already mentioned, but in 
this case the artist found himself 
up against another little problem. 
Owing to the obstructions, the pose 
did not produce the correct effect 
of light and shade, and he was 
somewhat at a loss to ascertain 
what form the shadow upon the 

°** t 

How a man may be posed in a running 

position without undue strain— the dotted 

lines indicate the position of the chair upon 

which the man rests* 

ground would take* He overcame the diffi- 
I his rough clay model was made for the pur- QU \ ty by ma king a rough clay model, in 

pose of studying the shadow cast by the tennis 
player on page 6 1 of this issue. 

miniature, of the figure in the same position 
as the girl in the illustration, which, when 

by Oc 


The finish of the cross-country race at the 

Lancing College sports. Inset shows how 

the jumping figure was posed, 

placed underneath an electric light, cast a 

natural shadow exactly as he required. 
UriginarFrDiTi ^ 


Chas. Crombie 


A flag blowing in the wind 
may be kked - 

by means of a backing of 
modelling ctay r 

The illustrator 
often finds a diffi- 
culty in drawing 
draperies that are 
supposed to be 
floating in the 
wind. We will 
assume that he in- 
tends to depict a 

girl making her way The effect of Bowing draperies may be obtained by reclining the model 
through a storm. upon cushions and drawing her reflection in a sloping mirror. 

To arrange the 

draperies by means of string would be difficult in which a convincing pose may be obtained 
as well as unsatisfactory, and the only manner is by reclining the Jady upon the floor. The 

draperies may then be arranged 
exactly as required by means of 
a little judicious padding, and 
a correct view of the figure 
may be obtained by arranging a 
sloping mirror above the artist's 
head. The above photograph 
shows exactly how this was 

Of all subjects in motion, one 
of the most elusive to draw is 
a flag, because it is constantly 
fluttering^ changing shape and 
position , and never still for an 
instant. The illustrator may 
overcome this difficulty by cover- 
ing the back of the flag with thin 
strips of modelling clay, which 
enable him to shape it exactly 
as he requires. 

As an example of how the 
In this picture the toboggan consists of a step-ladder, a various odds and ends of house- 
plank, a box, and a portion of an iron bedstead, whilst hold furniture may be some- 
the scarf is supported by strings. Utifp«alifafcrti to the illustrator in 


Studio cc Fakes 

arranging a pose, the photograph of the 
tobogganing figure is suggestive. The 
" toboggan " consists of a step-ladder sur- 
mounted by a plank, an ordinary box serves 
as a foot-rest, whilst a portion of an iron bed- 
stead, fixed firmly to 
allow the model to 
get a strong pull, 
takes the place of 
the wheel. The scarf 
is supported by 
strings to give the 
effect of movement, 
and the sheet is 
spread under the 
%i toboggan " in 
order to give the 

obliged frequently to transfer his glance from 
the easel to the mirror. He employs this 
means, therefore, only to obtain a glimpse of 
some minor detail of which he may not be 
quite certain — as, for example, the correct 
position of the hand when holding a revolver. 
Another type of illustration that calls for 
a considerable amount of preparation is the 
historical subject. In order to please a large 
circle of readers and to do justice to the 
story that he is illustrating, the artist must 
make certain that all the details of uniforms, 
costumes, furniture, vehicles, firearms, and 
so on are drawn correctly according to 
period. He must, therefore, possess, in 
addition to his technical knowledge and 
ability, a comprehensive collection of books 

Working in a confined space. 

The model is posed behind the artist, who is drawing 
from the reflection. 

necessary upward reflection of light such as 
is produced by snow. 

There are occasions upon which an illus- 
trator may be obliged to work at a con- 
siderable disadvantage owing to lack of 
space, or because he cannot arrange for the 
light to fall upon both the model and the 
easel without bringing the former so close 
that he is unable to obtain a satisfactory 
view of his subject. Here again the mirror 
may be employed to advantage, and the 
model can be posed immediately behind the 
artist, as shown in the photograph of the 
pierrette* The mirror also comes in handy 
upon occasions when a model is not available, 
the artist making the necessary pose himself 
and drawing from the reflection. In such 
cases the illustrator is not, of course, able to 
hold a pose for any length of time, since he is 

by Google 

and pictures on all subjects, to which he 
can refer when in doubt. 

The most satisfactory method of ensuring 
correctness of detail in a drawing of this kind 
is to hire the dress of the period from a 
costumier, but when this is impossible, the 
artist has again to resort to " faking/' The 
figure of the man seated astride a dummy 
horse (composed of a camera tripod, a plank, 
and a rolled- up mattress) is an example of 
this t The costume of the fifteenth century 
is made from a curtain, an old shirt, long 
stockings, and other oddments, and it is 
sufficient to enable the artist to study the 
effect of the pose, the lighting, and the folds 
of the drapery, The more intricate details 
would, of course , be added to the finished 
drawing after further reference to the artist's 
collection of pictures already referred to. 

Original from 

Chas. Crombie 


Similarly the costume of the lady in the 
eighteenth century is improvised from an 
ordinary blanket. An overcoat is arranged 
round the hips, the blanket is then folded 
over a string and draped round the waist. 
The front of the bodice, or stomacher, 
consists of an old shirt, and a paper bow is 
pinned on to add a finishing touch to the 

The difficulties of the illustrator, however, 
cannot all be overcome by ' + faking/* and 
even in the simple depictions of everyday 
life there are many pitfalls into which the 
unwary may tumble. Not only must 
the characters be drawn to tally with the 
author's description, but dresses must be 
correct and up-to-date, and the artist must 
needs keep his eye upon the prevailing 
fashions, The illustrator who depicts the 
girl of to-day in one of yesterday's frocks will 
most assuredly annoy the lady reader — 
and should he commit the error of drawing a 
man in a bowler hat when the author dis- 
tinctly mentions that his hero is wearing 
a cap, he can look forward to receiving a 
little shower of criticism through the post. 
Similarly, in pictures of sea life the riggings 
and fittings of a vessel must be correctly 
drawn, for to the men who make the sea 
their home, an error in detail of this kind is 
little short of criminal, 

One would think, perhaps, that the artist 
could rely upon his trained observation and 
upon his memory to depict the people one 
meets in the street, but a moment's reflection 
will show that even this is not quite so easy 

A fifteenth- century horseman, whose costume 
was improvised from an old shirt, a curtain, 
long stockings, and other oddments. His 

a camera tripod sur- 

steed" consists 

Artist and model too. How the mirror may sometimes be employed 
when no model is available. 


mounted by a mat* 
tress and a plank. 

as it appears. For 
exam pie, how many 
people who pass a 
policeman every 
day of their lives 
could draw his uni- 
form correctly, or 
stand at the 
artist's elbow and 
instruct him how 
to do so ? How 
many buttons has 
he upon his tunic? 
On which arm is 
the duty badge 
worn ? What sort 
of chin - strap is 
attached to the 
helmet, and does a 
policenlan on point 
duty wear a belt ? 
The illustrator 

Vol, I*. -4. 


5 o 

Studio u Fakes 

must be able to answer alt these questions 
when occasion demands, either from memory 
or by means of his reference library — unless 
he prefers to leave his easel and dash into 
the street in search of a representative 
of the law. 

To eliminate the possibility of error in the 
enormous range of subjects that he is called 
upon to illustrate, the artist really needs to 
know his subject from actual experience, 
and there are, therefore, many illustrators 
who specialize in one particular style of 
drawing — one undertakes nothing else but 
golfing pictures, another adheres to sea 
subjects, whilst a third makes a study of 
hunting or fishing. The " all-round " illus- 

trator who does not specialize must possess 
a very good general knowledge, and must also 
be able to invoke the aid of an expert if 
he intends to produce a drawing that is a 
careful blending of art with realism, and 
appreciation of beauty with adherence to 

Apropos of this, a drawing appeared in a 
magazine not very long ago, depicting a girl 
punting on the river t Ninety- nine persons 
out of every hundred passed it by with little 
or no comment — it was pleasing to the eye, 
the subject was picturesque, the girl was 
pretty, and the composition was faultless. 

But the hundredth reader happened to 
know something about punting, and he 
quickly observed that the girl was raising 
the pole with a slight tilt towards the 
centre of the boat. Those who have ever 
had personal experience of punting will 
know that the holding of the pole in this 
position w r ould cause a stream of water to 
run down and trickle all over the boat, with 
considerable discomfort to the occupants. 
The error brought forth a deal of criti- 
cism through 
the post, besides 
a few w e 1 1 - 
chosen words 
from the editor. 
The late Mr. 
Phil May, the 
famous humor- 
ist, was once 
guilty of a simi- 
lar error in de- 
tail. In a sketch 
of a cricket 
match, for some 
reason he drew 
the figure of a 
nun in the 
-l slips" wearing 
wicket - keeping 

Shortly after 
the sketch was 
published, the 
artist received 
a telegram from 
one of his 
friends ; — 

M Why is man 
in slips wearing 
wicket - keeping 
gloves ? ,J 

Phil May's 
reply was brief 
and crushing. It 
ran : — 

" To keep his 
hands warm," 

A lady's costume of the eighteenth century, made from an ordinary 
blanket and an old shirt, 

rv -^h Prtnnlr Original from 

digitized by v^uuglL UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN 



- , j 

lever with me, dear/ said Audrey, with acid sweetness, 
supposed fco be pals* you know/ " 

H ASSET TODD {according to the 
Registrar of Births), or +1 Toddles " 
(as he was known to everybody else), 
stood five feet six inches high in boots ; and 
therein lies an epitome of Iiis tragi -comic 
existence. Had the feet been six and the 
inches five it is conceivable that he would 
have agreed to measurement in his socks t 
but as it was, he begged to be excused. Not 

by LiOOgle 

that he felt an insurmountable contempt 
for meagre stature in itself, but when ho 
compared his own sixty-six inches with 
Hilda Manthony's seventy, the breast of 
Charles Julius heaved with a portentous 
sigh and his tongue swore freely at Fate. 

A Hyde Park orator would have classed 
Toddles among the M idle rich/' but this 
would not have been strictly just, for Toddles 
had a profession. He was a writer of brave 



The Ordeal by Water 

romances. Whatever the Hyde Park orator 
may have thought, Toddles's publishers 
appear to have believed that he worked to 
produce these books, for they paid him hand- 
somely. The reading public, too, paid 
Toddles's publishers handsomely — but that 
is neither here nor there. The point is that 
Toddles's books " went well," and it was only 
natural that they should. No public with 
an ounce of live blood in its veins could resist 
those tall, stern, whalebone-and-whipcord 
heroes whose adventures Toddles delighted 
to narrate. The book that might have been 
his masterpiece he hadn't the heart to write. 
And in any case it wouldn't have gone so well 
as the others, although it would have con- 
tained far more exact inside knowledge. Its 
title would have been : " An Exposure of the 
Utter Futility of Seventeen Physical Culture 
Systems for Increasing the Height." 

Toddles accepted his popularity with no 
very great disturbance of the pulse. It was 
not really what his mind was on. His atti- 
tude to the world at large was one of polite 
resignation, but those small areas of it 
trodden by Hilda Manthony Toddles passion- 
ately worshipped. He had begun bombard- 
ing her with splendid confessions of love 
quite early in their friendship, but whether 
Hilda preserved these corpulent envelopes 
or not, her replies were always couched in 
the same disarming terms. 

" My Dear Toddles," she used to write, 
" it was so kind of you to let me see in 
advance this passage from your new book. 
I feel that I am a Favoured Personage. I 
shall expect a complimentary copy when the 
novel is published, for I am now greatly 
intrigued to learn whether the flinty-hearted 
heroine takes pity on the gallant little man 
in the end. — Your unchanging friend, Hilda 

Toddles would press his lips reverently to 
the signature, thrust the missive into the 
pocket nearest his heart, swear at Fate with 
extraordinary fluency, and take up his long- 
suffering quill to delineate the stately sweet- 
nesses of Hilda in yet another radiant 
romance of life and love. 

LOOKING at Hilda Manthony as she sat 
opposite her devoted friend, Audrey 
Appleton, over a tiny table in the smoke- 
lounge of the Prawners' Hotel, an onlooker 
might have pardoned even Toddles's wildest 
outburst, for she was a veritable flower of 
Anglo-Saxon womanhood. 

Miss Appleton was taking her friend to 
task with unusual severity. 

" I tell you solemnly, Hilda," she cried, 
slapping the lid of a tortoise-shell cigarette- 
box which rested between them, " if it was any- 
body else I should call it downright caddish. 
The poor little wretch is dying by half-inches." 

by Google 

11 No, dear," replied her friend, coolly, 
" living by half -inches. If I sent him away 
for good, he might carry out his much- 
repeated threat, and rob the world of quite 
a useful little life. If, on the other hand, I 
married him " 

" And why not ? " burst out Miss Apple- 

" For two reasons, my dear. Firstly, be- 
cause Toddles does not love me, and, secondly, 
because I love Toddles." 

" Please don't be clever with me, dear," 
said Audrey, with acid sweetness. " We're 
supposed to be pals, you know. Keep it for 
Lady Slinger's and Brook Street, though, 
candidly, I don't fancy the gods had the 
Aspasia model in mind when they planned 

"Go on, dear, if it relieves you," replied 
Miss Manthony ; " but I'll tell you a thing of 
two which may blow a little of the fog out or 
your wits. Toddles, I say, does not love me. 
He thinks he does, but he's wrong. I know 
him all through, and I know that queer little 
temperament of his. To such men, a hope- 
less, artistic attachment is the very breath of 
their beings. Toddles worships me, if you 
like, but that's all. I'm a beautiful ideal 
he tries to live up to. If I married him, he 
would find me out in a month : the ideal 
would be shattered, and Toddles would 
sink, disillusioned and crushed. He is not 
a strong man, and not a perfectly good one : 
like most artists, he has a streak of the 
sensual in him, and a broad band of the 
selfish. Once destroy that rosy image he 
makes of me, and the bad undercurrents will 
work their way to the surface in no time. 
No, dear, it would be brutal and immoral for 
me to marry Toddles." 

" And yet," cried Audrey, " you say you 
love him ! " 

" I think so," replied Hilda, " but I may 
be mistaken. I don't know why people 
imagine that every woman must inevitably 
love somebody, and I am pretty certain that 
thousands of women, married and maids, go 
from the cradle to the grave without ever 
loving at all. But I don't think I am one of 
them. I love Toddles. But for Heaven's 
sake don't ask me why." 

Miss Appleton took a cigarette and lit it, 
firmly, in the strong manner of one whose 
mind is made up. 

" Listen to me, my dear," she said. " I'll 
lay you a fiver I can prove that Toddles loves 

" Done," said Hilda, quietly, " and make 
it a tenner if you like." 

" No," said her friend, " I don't want to 
impoverish you. This is my proposal. 
Toddles shall escort us round the pier to- 
morrow, when you will suddenly grow inter- 
ested to know how piers are made. We shall 

Original from 


Gilbert Collins 


go down to the platform where the steam- 
boat crowds land, and you will be leaning 
over the chains with an air of wonderfully 
simulated curiosity, when your foot will slip 
on the iron grating, and over you will go 
into the English Channel. Toddles will be 
after you like a bullet, and if that isn't proof 
positive he loves you, I don't know what is." 

" Not a bit of it, my dear. It's proof of 
nothing of the sort. Why, that is just one 
of the limelit moments Toddles has been 
gloating over in the secrecy of his soul ever 
since he met me. But I will take your wager 
all the same, for if you want to know, Toddles 
won't go the plunge. The sudden shock will 
be too. much for him. Heroic scenes like 
that go well in the imagination — especially 
such an imagination as Toddles's ; but when 
it comes to the real thing, he will lose his head 
altogether. He will dance about, distracted, 
shrieking for help and presenting the comic 
picture of a man trying to run and pull his 
boots off at the same time. Meanwhile, his 
great chance will slip away from him, and it 
i6 probably some grimy, primitive soul of a 
pier-hand who will haul me out with a length 
of tarry rope. But still, if you insist on 
throwing money away " 

And their hands met over the tortoise-shell 
cigarette-box, clinching the bet. 

THE day might have been one of mid- 
spring. The bland, westering sun fell 
slantwise across the light south wind, 
chafing out all the chill, while as for the 
sea, any experienced eye qpuld have seen 
that he was in a good humour and warm. 
There were few people on the sea-front and 
hardly any on the pier. It was too late in 
the season for people. Most of Shingleford's 
visitors have departed by the end of Septem- 
ber, while it is at this period that Hilda and 
Audrey usually arrive. They do not like 
crowds. Toddles, on the other hand, neither 
likes nor dislikes them. He does not judge 
places that way. He defines them into 
heavenly and hellish ones, the former being 
those which contain Hilda Manthony. 

At two-thirty-five sharp, Hilda was over- 
taken by a sudden curiosity in the matter of 
modern pier-construction. This mood would 
have seemed strange to anyone else, but 
Toddles was not in the habit of questioning 
Hilda's wants or analysing her motives. She 
just wanted a thing — that was enough. Had 
she expressed a desire for the moon, Toddles 
would have methodically bought up every 
known book on astronomy and sat down to 
work out the possibilities. 

The trio descended to the lower platform, 
and Toddles, rapidly mustering his whole 
knowledge of the theme in hand, began en- 
lightening the ladies on the comparative 
merits of pile-driving by steam or hand- 

by Google 

pulleys, the imperviousness of pitch-pine to 
salt-water-rot, the protective virtues of 
paint, Stockholm tar and creosote, and the 
perfect indispensability of a rock-bottom. 
His eloquence grew on him, and he had 
turned away to illustrate a certain point by 
calling attention to another part of the 
structure, when the comedy happened. It 
was well for the conspirators that Toddles 
was looking the other way, for Hilda's fall 
was painfully unconvincing. The next in- 
stant was big with three things — a scream 
from Audrey Appleton, a splash in the sea, 
and a flying leap by Toddles. Toddles had 
seized his great chance. Moreover, he had 
seized it so promptly, that a careless observer 
might have sworn that the pair of them 
struck the water together ; but whereas 
Hilda had fallen, Toddles had leapt, so that 
when he rose to the surface it took him half- 
a-dozen floundering, ill-swum strokes to 
reach the object of his life's devotions. 

Once in the water, Hilda set herself to the 
task of drowning with as much safety and 
verisimilitude as possible. She was a fair 
swimmer, a good one in comparison with 
most ladies, and a Webb-and-Burgess rolled 
into one compared with Toddles. In all the 
circumstances, you would have said that 
there could be no hitch, but there was. An 
abominable thing happened. Hilda was apt 
to bless it in after years, but now she could 
have thrown aside her maidenly restraint 
and cursed it into the gulfs of perdition. 
She was seized with a paralysing cramp. 
Her sinking — the first of the traditional three 
— was perfectly involuntary, and when she 
rose to the surface and genuinely cried for 
help, Audrey Appleton saw that something 
was amiss, and turned her own half-hearted 
screams into shrieks of real earnest. At this 
point, Toddles, already in vast difficulties 
through the weight of his own clothes 
and heavy clout shoes, reached Hilda and 
seized the neck of her blouse, but the flimsy 
material came away in his hand, and she 
sank again. Now was the grand moment of 
Toddles's life. He allowed himself to sub- 
merge — there was no difficulty whatever 
about this — thrust a frantic arm down to- 
wards Hilda, and felt his fingers entangle in 
her hair. Then the great love that he had 
for her lent his exhausted little frame the 
buoyant might of a whale. With three 
stupendous leg-kicks he gained the surface, 
and looked wildly above him. A life-line 
hissed across his face. Toddles snapped at 
it madly with his teeth, missed it, ad 
swallowed incalculable draughts of salt 
water. But the rope had coiled round his 
shoulder, and his free hand instinctively 
grasped it. He felt himself sinking again, 
sinking and sinking miles into the depths 
of the sea. while the weight below him and 



The Ordeal by Water 

Toddles had seized his great chance so promptly that a careless observer might have 
sworn that the pair of them struck the water together." 


Gilbert Collins 


the pull from above seemed to be tearing 
his body asunder : the booming in his ears 
rose to a terrific climax ; then oblivion. 

HILDA MANTHONY sat deep in the 
deepest arm-chair to be found in the 
Prawners' Hotel, and toasted her 
shapely feet — the subject of well over a 
dozen flowery odes by Toddles — before a 
big fire. Miss Appleton, in the intervals 
between rearranging the cushions and 
blankets for her friend, was brewing 
whisky-toddy, to which Hilda had con- 
sented with the qualification that it was 
unsexed, but highly medicinal. Audrey was 
adding the sugar, when the door behind 
them opened, and a pale, shivering, shock- 
headed, dressing-gowned, woollen-slippered 
figure entered. 

" Toddles," cried Hilda, with an imperious 
turn of her head, " get back to bed at once, 
or I'll report you to the doctor ! " 

" Oh, that ass," replied Toddles, with 
hoarse amiability; " he thinks I'm ill." 
(A copious sneeze.) " These country prac- 
titioners are awful fools, you know. I came 
down to see if you were all right, Hilda. I 
do hope you aren't going to be any the worse 
for $$bx ducking." 

He'- winced, and plied a large pocket- 
handkerchief savagely. The hero with cold- 
in-the-head deserves our deepest sympathy. 

" There, there, what a wilful little man it 
is." said Hilda, relenting. " Well, if you 
must kill yourself, draw a chair up to the 
fire and have some grog." 

" Thanks, no end," said the rescuer, 
mixing himself a potent draught. " Ugh ! 
It is medicine to me, anyhow ! " 

It suddenly occurred to them both that 
Audrey Appleton had vanished. Hilda laid 
a hand on Toddles's shoulder. 

" Toddles," she said, " I haven't had a 
chance yet to thank you for pulling me out 
of the sea." 

The hero trembled violently at her touch, 
and flushed to the roots of his hair. 

" Don't, Hilda," he stammered. " You 
know very well I should have gone in just 
the same for anybody else." 

" I know, now, Toddles, that you would. 
But I've a horrible confession to make to 
you. It wasn't an accident ! " 

" No," said Toddles, gazing sadly into the 
red coals, " it was a conspiracy." 

" What," she cried, starting up out of her 
chair, " has Audrey told you ? " 

" No," he said, " nobody told me. I didn't 
want telling. I saw it all out of the skirt of 
my eye, and frankly, Hilda, people don't fall 
into the sea that way. Besides, I knew 
something was in the wind when you 
came down in the fashions of last year but 


by Google 

" What do you know about what I wear, 
Toddles ? " she asked. 

" Everything," he said, simply. " I could 
tell you every dress you've worn since I first 
met you, and how you looked in each one, 
too. I couldn't describe them in modiste's 
lingo, of course, but I should know them if 
I saw them again." 

" Why do you take such an interest in me, 
Toddles, when I've been such a cad to you ? " 

Toddles rose to his feet. 

" I won't listen to talk like that, Hilda," 
he said. " If we two stood on the edge of 
hell and you threw me into the flames, my 
only feeling would be pride that you should 
so far concern yourself with me. If I haven't 
made you know that by now, it isn't my 
fault. But there must be no more foolery 
like to-day's. My God, Hilda, if you had 
gone # under ! " 

He buried his face in his hands, with a 
fearful shudder. 

" What would you have done, Toddles, 
without me ?*" 

" There wouldn't have been such a ques- 
tion to ask," he said, quietly. There was a 
depth in his words which Hilda had never 
heard before. 

They looked into one another's eyes for 
fully a minute, and a strange beauty rose in 
the face of Hilda Manthony, a vision of all 
the exquisite human loveliness blended and 
transfigured with the light of another sphere. 
Toddles saw it, and his blood was flowing fire 
in his veins. The piston-blows of his great 
little heart wellnigh struck him down, and 
he quivered and swayed like a sapling in the 
gales of March. She held her beautiful 
hands half-way out to him, and Toddles, 
falling rather than kneeling, seized them and 
kissed them wildly, muttering incoherent 
worship to Heaven and to Hilda. She then 
disengaged her hands tenderly, and leaning 
forward, drew his face to her and kissed him 
once on the lips. Then, sinking back into the 
chair with a great sigh, she closed her eyes, 
and a tear lay, eloquent and unashamed, on 
the glorious curve of her cheek. Toddles 
subsequently immortalized that single, sacred 
tear in an epic poem, which Hilda, its only 
reader, told him on their wedding day was a 
work superior to the Paradise Regained. 

The many friends of Hilda and Toddles 
were lost in delight at the wonderful array 
of presents on show-morning, but it was 
widely remarked, with surprise, that there 
was no gift bearing the name of Audrey 
Appleton, bridesmaid, among them. It was 
Hilda's idea that Miss Appleton's offering 
should take the form of amnesty in the matter 
of a certain never-sufficiently-to-be- beautified 
wager. The only person who shares their 
secret is Toddles, and he won't let it go any 

Original from 


■0 s 



A Lawnlennis Siori^ 

u °M 




WOMAN-LIKE, she attacked with- 
out warning. 
" May I ask why you have 
taken such an unwarrantable 
liberty in connection with me?" she asked, 
fine scorn on her lips, but bitter resentment 
in her splendid eyes. 

John Kenyon came up to meet the attack 
as a soldier pulls himself together to salute. 

" I am not aware that I have taken any 
such liberty, Miss Deane," he replied, stiffly. 
His steady glance challenged her burning 

Little banners of rage flamed in the girl's 

" How dare you deny it ? " she cried. 

" Deny what ? " Kenyon was naturally 
an even-tempered man, but this bewildering 
show of anger on the part of a girl with whom 
he had spent so many happy hours of sporting 
companionship amazed him. Also, because 
he knew himself to be entirely innocent 
of any such charge, he felt the accusation 
all the more. Loving a girl in the case 
of John Kenyon did not excuse an exhibition 
of unwarrantable temper. He felt he would 
like to shake the tempestuous shoulders 
of the beautiful creature before him — even 
if he kissed the twitching lips afterwards. 
There was a certain hint of the primeval 
in him as he stood regarding her. 

" Do you deny that you had nothing to 
do with — this ? " She flung her arm forward 

by K: 



impulsively, and, looking, Kenyon saw 
that she was holding a newspaper cutting, 

" Am I to take it ? " 

Mona Deane flushed deeper. 

11 Considering that the * information * 
seems to have come from you — yes," she 

Although he felt he would like to add a 
good smacking to the original shaking, 
Kenyon gave no sign of emotion as he took 
the cutting. Smoothing it out, he read : — 

That when a certain distinguished young 
novelist goes abroad in the autumn in search 
of local colour for his next book, there is 
a chance of his being accompanied by a 
certain charming young lady, well known 
in local sporting circles, who will share 
his name in addition to the many triumphs 
she has already shared with him on the 
lawn-tennis courts. The information comes 
to me from a thoroughly reliable source. 

" Highly interesting ! " commented Ken- 
yon, acidly. " And you say you can trace 
my hand in this abomination I Will you 
please to tell me why ? " 

His look of anger threatened to sober 
the girl ; but her flaming spirit carried 
her on. 

" It is well known that that column of 
ridiculous flapdoodle is written by young 
Roy Davidson. You are a close friend of 
Davidson's, aren't you ? Besides, * a tho- 
roughly reliable source ' I But " — in a tone 
of mocking bitterness — " I think you should 
have consulted me before committing me 
to a tour on the Continent with a man who 
has never even made love to me ! You say 
the paragraph is abominable; I consider 
your action is worse than abominable ! " 

It was clear that the anger of the girl 
had caused her to lose all sense of propor- 
tion, of common sense, even of justice. 
At least that was how it struck the jnan 
she was accusing. But because he wished 
to be perfectly fair, he replied evenly : 
" Davidson comes to my rooms certainly ; 
but to suggest that I gave him authority 
to print a paragraph of this description 
is so perfectly preposterous that I shall 
not even trouble to deny it I " 

The girl's rage burst into fresh flame at 
this. The thought of the flood of innuendoes 
which she knew would come to her ears before 
many more hours had passed tempted her 
to do something desperate. She stamped 
her foot and glared — there is no other word 
— at the man she felt had so contemptibly 
Original from 

Sydney Horler 


To suggest that 1 gave Davidson authority to print a paragraph of this description is 
so perfectly preposterous that I shall not even hobble 1o deny it I " 



The Loser Who Won 

abused her friendship — and (the shame 
whipped her cheeks) something more than 

The man stared back. His firm jaw 
jutted out like a rock. There was a glint 
in the grey eyes. Kenyon looked as angry 
as the girl herself by this time — but infinitely 
more dangerous. 

Indeed, the man was possessed by an anger 
which threatened to swamp even his iron 
self-control. This passion was aroused, not 
so much by the girl's resentment towards 
him because his name had been coupled 
with hers — this, in the circumstances, he 
told himself, was natural enough — but by 
the girl's staggering charge -and the lack of 
faith which it indicated. 

" If you won't deny it ," started the 

girl, determinedly. 

" Yes ? " finished the man, with aggra- 
vating coldness. 

" I must come to my own conclusions," 
said Mona Deane. 

" I can only hope that they will be more 
sensible ones than those to which you have 
already given expression ! " replied Kenyon, 

Stamping her foot imperiously once again, 
the girl turned quickly away. 

" I think," she said, over her shoulder, 
' 4 I think that I hate you ! " 

" I will remove my hateful presence ! " 
said John Kenyon, and he, too, turned — 
in the opposite direction. 

Although he followed the mild and 
spiritless occupation of novel-writing, there 
was a masterfulness about John Kenyon 
which marked him oiit from his fellow- 
men. It is significant that he was known 
among his male intimates as the " Cave 

Honesty and sincerity were his two out- 
standing characteristics, if one excepts a 
frankness which was so direct as to be 
often embarrassing, and even, on occasion, 

He had no use for subterfuge of any 
description ; women had to shed their 
petty meannesses in dealing with him, for 
he treated them in the same direct way 
as he did men. In consequence he was not 
a favourite among the feminines ; he had 
startled many a dovecote at the Waverley 
Lawn Tennis Club, even if the brilliance 
of his play had created a sensation. 

Kenyon applied an acid -test to a man or 
a woman before he admitted the other to 
his full friendship. He did not do so through 
an overweening conceit of himself, but 
because he would not waste time on the 

It was this trait in his character that 
caused him to feel more bitterly towards 

Digitized by G* 

the girl than towards the youth who had 
written that abominable paragraph. When 
Mona Deane's flushed and angry face 
loomed up before his mind's eye, he experi- 
enced a sense of intense disappointment. 
Her fault, he told himself, was greater than 
Davidson's, for whereas the young reporter 
had merely committed a blazing indiscretion, 
Mona Deane had accused him of being a 
liar, if not something worse. 

With the self-centred outlook of a strong 
man, Kenyon did not stop to consider the 
feelings which had swayed the girl ; which 
had caused her to speak as she did — bitterly, 
recklessly. It was enough for him that 
the girl who had grown day by day in his 
confidence, and whom he had placed 
so high above all other women that she 
might have belonged to a third sex, had 
shown herself paltry in the moment of 
testing — paltry because she believed him 
capable of doing that which he held utterly 

Walking swiftly home to his rooms after 
that disturbing interview, he came to his 
decision. Another man would have done 
the obvious thing — he would have gone 
straight to the home of the writer of the 
paragraph, have caught him by the collar, 
dragged him into the presence of Mona 
Deane, and made him swear that he (Ken- 
yon) had nothing to do with the veiled 
insinuation that the two leading players 
in the Waverley Lawn Tennis Club shortly 
contemplated matrimony. 

Kenyon himself would have done this 
if he could have gained satisfaction from the 
act. But with him the wound went deeper ; 
even after Davidson had confessed, he 
would not have been content. Nothing 
could remove the hurt he felt that the girl 
had not had sufficient faith in him ; had 
believed him capable, first of all of holding 
her up to public talk, and secondly of telling 
her a lie. 

Inexplicable as it may seem, Kenyon 
wasted little thought on Davidson. The 
young reporter had played, according to 
his thinking, a minor part in this wretched 

Still, the thing must be put a stop to. 
Calling at Davidson's lodgings, he inquired 
for the reporter. 

" Mr. Davidson was taken violently and 
suddenly ill early this morning and had 
to be removed to the Northfield Infirmary. 
Appendicitis, I believe I heard the doctor 
say, sir." 

"I'm awfully sorry ! " replied John 

Arrived home, he telephoned to the 
Institution, and later wrote a letter to the 
patient. It was a letter of sympathy, 
and contained no reproaches. 


Sydney Horler 


Later, he wrote a private letter to the 
Editor of the local Gazette. 

Later still, he packed his bags. 

THE Hollywood Lawn Tennis Club wel- 
comed the new-comer with open arms. 
The fame of John Kenyon had spread 
over a far wider area than the twenty miles 
which separated the Waverley and Holly- 
wood Clubs, and the latter organization 
was "always open to receive strong men 
players, especially if they had undeniable 
social references. 

1 Very glad you have joined us — very 
glad ! " said Edgeley, the secretary ; * f with 
the County Championships so near we can 
do with you very well, Mr. Kenyon. This 
year we really ought to stand a good chance 
of pulling off some of the big events. You 
know," he added, in the manner of a man 
confiding a State secret, " we're a tennis 
club that really plays tennis, instead of 
holding Pink Teas, and getting highly 
unsuitable young couples engaged ! " 

41 I rarely drink tea, and the other sort 
of thing doesn't interest me ! " replied 
Kenyon, briefly. "I'm glad you're so 
keen on the game here ; tennis is my hobby." 

In the weeks that followed, the new 
member showed that lawn tennis with him 
was something more than a hobby ; it 
was a gift. As in other sports, there is 
such a thing as an instinct for the game, 
and Kenyon proved unmistakably that 
he possessed it. In addition to a highly-* 
dangerous service and a wonderful cross- 
court drive which he seemed to be able to 
" place " to an inch, he had the faculty 
of being invariably in the right place to 
thwart the designs of his opponent. Only 
men who have the real genius for the game 
possess this attribute. 

The excellent practice he got at his new 
club stimulated his already great interest 
in the game, and improved his play. Within 
a fortnight he was easily the strongest 
man in the club. 

Edgeley, a slight, short man, with a per- 
manent limp but an unbounded enthusiasm, 
watched the new-comer with the complacent 
air that a hen might watch a favourite 
and forward chick. And as he watched, 
he chuckled. The playing prowess of 
Hollywood was almost q, religion to this 
born secretary ; debarred from actual par- 
ticipation in the game, Edgeley's super- 
abundant energy was devoted to making 
Hollywood the strongest playing organiza- 
tion in the county. 

One day he stopped Kenyon as the latter 
came swinging off the courts with that 
easy athletic stride which made him so 
noticeable a figure. 

" I hope you are all right for Westchester, 


Kenyon ? " he asked, anxiously. " No 
special work on, or anything of that 
sort ? " 

" No ; I've been working off some arrears 
mornings and nights lately ; I hope to be 
quite free," was the reassuring reply. 

The lean secretary touched his star 
player impulsively on the shoulder. 

" We ought to take the men's singles, 
and have a chance with the men's doubles ! " 
he said. '' It's a pity we are rather weak 
in ladies, but Miss Stowell is the best girl 
we've got. She will play with you in the 
mixed. By the way, I hope you don't 
mind entering for this as well as the other 
events ? " 

" Not at all. Tennis, as I told you once, 
I believe, is my hobby." The tone was 
level and non-committal. 

" We shall give the Waverley people — 
your old crowd — a surprise — what ? " 
chuckled Edgeley. 

•' Perhaps ! " replied the other, with an 
indifference that went straight to the 
secretary's heart. 

" Funny devil ! " muttered Edgeley, as 
he turned away. " Nothing seems to move 
that chap ! " 

Edgeley may have been — indeed he was 
— an excellent secretary of a prominent 
lawn tennis club, but as a psychologist 
he had things to learn. It was because 
he really felt moved that John Kenyon 
had replied so indifferently. 

Last year he had won the County Mixed 
Doubles at Westchester — and Mona Deane 
had been his partner ! Such a splendid 
player would be bound to be competing 
again this year. He wondered what man 
she would play with ; and, wondering, 
Kenyon found himself seized by an un- 
accountable annoyance. 

Lighting a cigarette, he tried to analyse 
this feeling. Why should he feel annoyed 
because a girl who had treated him in such 
a fashion was entering a tennis tournament 
with another man but himself for her 
partner ? 

He found the answer. But the solution 
seemed to enrage him the more. Flinging 
his cigarette down, he ground it beneath 
his heel. 

JOHN KENYON brought his racket round 
in a graceful sweep ; there was a re- 
assuring ping as the white ball was finely 
hit — and the final for the County Mixed 
Doubles had commenced. 

Crowded round the clearly-marked court 
that looked like a patch of green velvet in 
that molten sunlight, the great gaily-dressed 
throng leaned forward, intent on every 
stroke. There is latent drama in every big 
sporting event, and in this case the match 



The Loser Who Won 

1 call it contemptible t" she replied and deliberately drove 

had an added piquant flavour, for last year's 
-winners were now — antagonists ! 

The unseen gods who juggle with human 
pawns had wrought this thing. Even 
though he was handicapped by a compara- 
tively weak partner, Kenyan had fought his 
way to the final by sheer brilliance. 

It was inevitable, too, that Mona Dearie 
And Melville Sands would also reach the 
final of the Mixed Doubles* The girl was 
away in a class by herself f while Sands 
fought like a tiger for every point, and, 
after finding the weak spot in the opposing 
pair, played ruthlessly on it until the match 
was won. Together they had ploughed 
through the opposition, 

I have said— and every sporting enthusiast 

by Google 

knows the words to be true — that there is 
latent drama in every important match, 
whether the game be fought out in the boxing- 
ring, the football or cricket field, the golf 
course, or the courts of lawn tennis. Few 
of those, however, who watched the chos:n 
champions of the Waverley and Hollywood 
Clubs battling for supremacy realized the 
real feelings that were animating the players. 

Emotions that had little to do with lawn 
tennis were making Mona Deane feel shaky 
in that glaring arena, but her sporting spirit 
— a priceless heritage from her forefathers — 
forced her to concentrate her mind on the 

Her partner, Melville Sands, sandy-haired, 
crafty -eyed, had harnessed his will to one 

Original from 


Sydney Horler 


~\" ~^ry'' ~'"]t 

the next ball into the net. There was no mistaking the action/" 

thought : the beating of the man opposed 
to him. He knew .hat Ken yon and Mona 
Deane had had some sort of a row after that 
paragraph had appeared in the Gazette, and 
his twisted reasoning led hi in to think that 
if he could humiliate Kenyon by defeating 
him he would stand well in the beautiful 
Irish girl's favour. 

And Kenyon ? What were his thoughts ? 
He knew Sands and his kind, and \w infant 
to win because he detested the man per- 
sonally, and detested still more the thought 
that he was associated with the girl whose 
every movement was a stab at his own heart. 

It had been a trying week for even such 
an iron man as John Kenyon. The days 
had been packed with poignant moments, 

ized by GOOgle 

Although he had kept a great deal to him- 
self, he had unavoidably found himself face 
to face on several occasions with Mona 

His will forced him merely to bow coldly 
when common politeness demanded it, but 
it had cost him a good deal to walk on then 
as though the girl had really passed out of 
his life. She had — but God ! at what a 
price ! 

'* Forty — fifteen / " 

The voice of the umpire stabbed the silence. 

Sands sent over a scorching service. 
Kenyon's partner made no attempt to play 
it ; the task of speeding that ball back over 
the net was too much for her- Already, she 
looked like crumpline beneath the strain of 



The Loser Who Won 

this big occasion. There was a faint burst 
of applause, denoting that the Waverley 
representatives had won the first game. 

They won also the first set. It was heart- 
rending to see a fine player like Kenyon 
fighting against such uneven odds. His 
partner was obviously outclassed, and even 
his brilliance was not sufficient to stem the 
tide which had set so firmly against the 
hopes of Hollywood. 

Once, when changing courts, he caught 
Mona Deane's eye. The girl was looking at 
him sympathetically. He would have given 
a great deal to know what lay behind that 
look ; what feelings had prompted it. 

Through his favourite stroke, a cross- 
court drive that gave the ball the speed of 
a bullet, Kenyon secured the first game in 
the second set. The sympathies of the crowd 
were clearly with him by this time, and a 
volleying cheer echoed round the ground as 
Sands made an ineffectual attempt to take 
the ball which went whizzing past him in a 
little cloud of whitewash. 

The cheers made Sands show his teeth. 
It was an unpleasant sight, just as the play 
which followed was unpleasant to those 
whose sense of sportsmanship triumphed 
over their partisanship. t For even if it was 
good tennis strategy, it was scarcely " the 

True to his nature, Sands, having found 
the weakness of his opponents, exploited it ; 
lie played continuously on Kenyon 's partner. 
The latter, already overawed by the import- 
ance of the occasion, and feeling acutely 
conscious that she was letting her partner 
down badly, fell to pieces. She fumbled 
like a novice, sending ball alter ball into 
the net. 

Sands became jaunty again. Flushed with 
success, he resorted to questionable tactics. 
Once Kenyon was palpably not ready for 
the service which his opponent sent over 
without any preliminary warning, even 
although, acting on instinct, he made a 
hopeless, belated swing at the ball. As the 
referee, hard bound by the rules, was forced 
to debit the point against him, Kenyon 
shrugged his shoulders expressively. The 
crowd, understanding the gesture, shared 
his contempt for a man who allowed himself 
so far to forget the most simple ethics of 

Yet the man on the other side of the net 
was elated. 

** Easy ! " whispered Melville Sands, as he 
stooped to gather a ball. 

A flush stained the tan in Mona Deane s 

" I call it contemptible 1 " she replied — 
and deliberately drove the next ball into 
the net. 

There was no mistaking the action. But 

by Google 

no one understood what lay behind that 
deli berate mis-stroke so well as the man on 
the other side of the net. 

John Kenyon felt a thrill pass through 
him. When the players next changed sides, 
he sought Mona Deane 's glance .and gave 
her back look for look. It was not possible 
for either of them to misunderstand that 
communion of the eyes. 

in that moment Mona Deane and John 
Kenyon came closer to each other than they 
had ever been before. The thought came to 
them intuitively how much each had missed 
through the circumstance which had made 
them drift in opposite ways. They should 
still have been playing together. 

A wave of regret passed through the girl. 
With the incident of the foul service fresh in 
her mind, she realized how criminally short- 
sighted she had been to think even for a 
minute that such a man as Kenyon could 
have been capable of a mean action, of any- 
thing underhanded. The man was a sports- 
man. He had proved that by accepting the 
referee's decision over that debatable point 
without question. If only she could condone 
V for the past ! 

\\ As for Kenyon, his mind became flooded 
with memories. How thoroughly this girl 
and he had understood each other, even 
before, on his side, friendship had strength- 
ened into something deeper ! Those sunlit 
afternoons of the short ago — how happy 
they had been ! 

Unaware of the feelings that were swaying 
two at least of the players, the crowd shifted 
in their seats, hoping against hope that the 
tide would turn, and that Hollywood would 
get at least a set. The sight of that stern- 
jawed man in the well-worn flannels playing 
such a lone hand was really depressing, even 
if at the same time it was wonderfully 

Transfixed, they remained motionless, 
fascinated by the remarkable game which 
the man on whom all interest was focused 
was playing. From this point, indeed, 
Kenyon appeared to assume a mastery of 
the court, and, encouraged and strengthened 
by the example he set, his partner improved. 

The second set went to Hollywood. The 
score was 8 — 6, and the struggle was Homeric. 

Mona Deane, fascinated by the wonderful 
display of her former partner, watched with 
questing eyes Kenyon talking encouragingly 
to the girl playing with him. Then she 
looked at Melville Sands. The man was 

" You were a bit weak on your back 
hand, Miss Deane, in that last set, if you 
don't mind my mentioning it," he said, 

" But 1 do mind ! " Mona Deane retorted, 
annoyed beyond endurance at having her 


Sydney Horler 


musings about Kenyon (what a contrast 
he was to this contemptible pot-hunter !) 
broken into. She turned abruptly away. 

Smothering an oath, Melville Sands con- 
centrated his mind upon the third set, on 
the result of which hung the issue. 

Seeing him standing at the net, his racket 
held as though it were a weapon, and a 
relentless expression on his unpleasant face, 
Grace Stowell became unnerved once more. 
Once again the importance of the game 
overawed her. 

In spite of the efforts at self-control which 
she made, Sands' baleful glance seemed to 
fascinate her as a bird is fascinated by a 
snake ; even when she did contrive to 
return Mona Deane's service, she lobbed the 
ball meekly to Sands for the latter to " kill " 
it ruthlessly. 

It was heartbreaking to see this slaughter, 
but, his back against the wall, Kenyon 
strove, like a superman. Whatever anxiety 
he may have felt was not shown in his 
perfect service, his brilliant volleying, or in 
that superb drive from one corner of the 
court to the other, which was twice out of 
every three times a winning stroke. Round 
after round of cheers greeted his soul- 
stirring display, even while it seemed inevil^ 
able that he would be beaten. 

With the games standing at 5 — 3 in 
Waverley's favour, and with Sands serving, 
the men and women who had watched a 
man fighting against his fate groaned beneath 
their breath. The end was imminent. 

Yet still Kenyon struggled. It was hard 
to go down before a man like Sands. He 
countered the latter's services with unplay- 
able returns. These dazzling shots aroused 
a faint hope once more, but the Waverley 
strategist, facing for the last time the girl 
he had apparently mesmerized, drove over 
a ball that everyone knew she could only 
grope for feebly, blindly. 

Cheers volleyed out over the court — but 
there were more for the man who had lott 
than for the man who had won. 

In leaving the court, the four players 
found themselves close together. 

" I'm sorry— ever so sorry ! " A hand 
touched John Kenyon's arm ; a voice 
broken with dismay made him turn. 

" Awfully good pair against us, Miss Stowell 
— we did quite well. I'm sure Edgeley will 
agree ! " Kenyon smiled into the girl's face, 
pretending not to see her misery. 

Mona Deane saw the smile and guessed 
what the words were. She lingered behind 
instead of going on with her partner to 
receive congratulations. 

Kenyon allowed Grace Stowell to pass, 
and then lingered also. 

44 Congratulations I " he said, gravely. 
•" Don't I" replied the girl, tensely. ' I 

by L^OOgle 

think this has been the most terrible after- 
noon of my life ! Where can I see you ? " 
she went on hurriedly. " I must see you 
somewhere alone — I have something I want 
to tell you." 

THE waiter brought the coffee and silently 
withdrew. As he went, a flicker of a 
smile passed over his mask of a face. 
He had spent many seasons at that famous 
Thames Valley Hotel, and knew the signs. 
Moreover, he thought he had never seen a 
more beautiful girl. 

To the girl and man, sitting in the arbour 
on the edge of a* lawn that stretched its 
velvet length down to the gently-sighing 
river, came the scent of summer roses. In 
some magic way it mixed with the fragrance 
of the girl's hair, turning Kenyon faint with 

" What is it you want to tell me ? " he 

Mona Deane toyed with her wisp of a 
handkerchief. Yet she spoke unfalteringly. 

11 I want to tell you that I am sorry — have 
been sorry ever since I knew the truth," she 
said. " I know now it was ridiculous and 
contemptible of me to think that you were 
the type of man who would gossip un- 
warrantably about a girl just for the sake 
of a little cheap notoriety, or because you 
fancied you had made a conquest of someone 
who had told you she admired your books. 
If I had not known this before," the girl 
continued, " I should have learned it this 
afternoon — what happened in the match 
would have told me. But I became fran- 
tically angry when I read that paragraph in 
the Gazette for the first time ; all I could 
seem to remember was that you were a 
friend of the youth who was known to write 
that particular column. I want to tell you, 
also, that it was my temper which made me 
say the things I did. I am sorry ! " 

" It was my temper that would not allow 
me to give you a decent and straightforward 
denial," answered Kenyon. " I am sorry, 
too. Let me tell you now what I would 
not tell you then : I had no more to do 
with the compilation of that abominable 
paragraph than you did yourself. As a 
matter of fact, I wrote privately to the 
Editor of the paper the night I went away, 
telling him that the paragraph was un- 
founded, but that I did not want to get 
Davidson into any trouble. Didn't the 
Editor publish a denial ? " 

11 I believe so ; but I didn't see it myself. 
I was so upset that I wouldn't look at the 
wretched paper, and father stopped having 
it at the house. And the denial did not 
make matters easier for me — if you were a 
woman instead of a man, you would under- 
stand what I mean by that ! " 


6 4 

The Loser Who Won 

" Beastly I " muttered Kenyon, under- 
standing, even if he were only a man. " But 
I do want you to believe that I did what I 
thought was best — for you. And, as I told 
you before, I had absolutely nothing to do 
with that abominable first paragraph." 

" I know ! " answered the girl happily. 
* Some time after you — you had gone away, 
the boy Davidson wrote to me. He had 
heard, he said, that something he had 
written had caused. me annoyance, and he 
wanted to say how sorry he was. He added 
that he would not have written it at all but 
that he believed the facets were true. He got 
the ' news ' from my sister, he said." - 

Noting the look of perplexity on her 
hearer's face, she hurried on. 

" What I am going to tell you now requires 
a little courage," she continued, with a 
shaky laugh, " but to explain properly I 
have to teU you. 

" My sister Mary is the enfant terrible of 
the family. She is a flapper of the. most 
disconcerting description. Unbeknown to 
any of us, she has made the acquaintance 
of young Roy Davidson, and it is true that 
she gave that information to him. When 
she realized what harm she had done, she 
was afraid to tell me until I dragged the 
facts from her." 

" But ? " , 

" Be patient a little longer. And please 
do not look at me so hard, for this is the 
moment when I want all my courage ! 

" One day Mary was teasing me about you. 
She said we must be in love with each other 
because we always played tennis together, 
and because you took me occasionally to 
the theatre. 

" ' When Mr. Kenyon goes away to write 
his next book, I'll bet you'll be going with 
him ! ' she said, like the dreadful child she is. 

" It was such a terrible thing for a child 
to say that I suppose I must have blushed. 
In any case, I know I was too astounded to 
make any sensible reply. But young David- 
son ought to have had more sense " she 

wound up somewhat lamely. 

The strong face of John Kenyon was 
softened by a smile. 

" Davidson is reported to be very keen on 
local news. Of course, he should have come 
to me for verification of the report. But 
in a letter he sent me, he explained why he 
didn't ; he said he considered it was such a 
delicate matter that he didn't like to do so ! 
Whereupon I wrote him a long letter full 
of good, sound advice, in the course of which 
I told him that he would be well advised 
not to print anything in the future which 
he considered too delicate to mention to the 
parties concerned ! 

M But, boy-like, I really think he was 
trying to do me what he thought was a 
kindness. Well, one good turn deserves 
another. Suppose we give him some real 
news this time ? " 

He leaned towards her and, in the master- 
ful way of John Kenyon, took her in his 
arms. Perhaps it was because she was so 
surprised that the girl did not struggle. 
Instead, she meekly faltered, " What do 
you mean ? " 

" I propose to tell Davidson that Mr. and 
Mrs. John Kenyon are shortly starting for 
Italy, where the former proposes to write 
his next novel ! Have you any objection ? " 

Mona Deane snuggled closer. 

pj ®^^0*S$Si^^ 


\V/E have great pleasure in announcing that 

we have secured the exclusive right of 

publication in this country for some years 

to come in all serials and short stories by 



by Google 

Original from 






ER eyes" said Bill 

Brewster, *' are like — 

like — what's the word 

I want ? " 
He looked across at Lucille, 
his sister, and at Archie Mof~ 
fam, her husband. Lucille was 
leaning forward with an eager 
and interested face ; Archie was 
leaning back with his finger-tips 
together and his eyes closed. 
This was not the first time his 
brother-in-law had touched on 
the subject of the girl he had become engaged 
to marry during his trip to England. Indeed, 
Brother Bill had touched on very little 
else in the course of the past week, and 
Archie, though of a sympathetic nature, 
was beginning to feel that he had heard 
all he wished to hear about Mabel Winchester. 
Lucille, on the other hand, who was now 
getting her first instalment of it, was ab- 
sorbed. She was devoted to Bill, and his 
recital had thrilled her, 

" Like " said BilL " Like " 

41 Stars ? J ' suggested Lucille, 

" Eh ? Oh, sorry I Thinking of 
something else/' 
" You were asleep/ 1 
4t No, no, positively and dis- 
tinctly not. Frightfully in- 
terested and rapt and all that, 
onlv 1 didn't quite get what you 

r( I said that Mabel was a 

'* Oh, absolutely in every 

11 There I " Bill turned to 
Lucille triumphantly- M You hear that ? 
And Archie has only seen her photograph. 
Wait till he sees her in the flesh ! '* 

li My dear old chap ! " said Archie, 
shocked, " Ladies present ! I mean to 
say, what ! " 

I'm afraid/' said Lucille, 

" Stars/ 1 said Bill, gratefully. "Exactly 
the word. Twin stars shining in a clear 
sky on a summer night. Her teeth are 
like — -what shall I say ? " 

4 ' Pearls ? " 

11 Pearls. And her hair is a lovely brown, 
like leaves in the autumn. In fact/' con- 
cluded Bill, slipping down from the heights 
with something of a jerk, " she's a corker. 
Isn't she, Archie ? " 

Archie opened his eyes. 

4i Quite right, old top I " he said. " It 
was the only thing to do ! JJ 

" What the devil are you talking about ? " 
demanded Bill, coldly. He had been sus- 
picious all along of Archie's statement 
that he could listen better with his eyes 



that father 
will be the one you'll find it hard to con- 

** Yes," said her brother, gloomily. 

11 Your Mabel sounds perfectly charming, 
hut — well, you know what father is ! It 
is a pity she sings in the chorus ! " 

" She hasn't much of a voice/ J argued 
Bill p in extenuation, 

"All the same " 

Archie, the conversation having reached 
a topic on which he considered himself 
one of the greatest living authorities — to 
wit, the unlovable disposition of his father- 
in-law — addressed the meeting as one who 
has a right to be heard. 

" I wouldn't for the world say anything 
derogatory, as it were, to your jolly old 
pater, but there's no getting away from the 
fact that he's by way of being one of the 
leading man-eating fishes. I mean to say, 
he's a pretty tough nut. And what makes 
it "worse than it might be is that, ever since 
Lucille brought me in and laid me on the 
mat, he's been looking to you to restore 
i93Q P by p. g + wodehouj^qjnal from 



" Paving the Way for Mabel " 

the good old family prestige, if you know 
what I mean. He thinks Lucille let the 
proud name of Brewster down a bit, don't 
you know." 

" Don't be silly 1 " said Lucille. " You 
know quite well that you're a perfect little 
angel and that anyone would be lucky 
* to get you for a son-in-law." 

" Ah, but does he ? Has that thought 
ever entered the parental bean ? No ! 
I fear me, no ! Every time I get hold of 
a daisy, I give him another chance, but it 
always works out at 'He loves me not!' 
Very well then, laddie ! It comes to this, 
that he's looking to you to marry someone 
pretty special, and I'm sorry to have to 
say it, old bird, but, if you come bounding 
in with part of the personnel of the ensemble 
on your arm and try to dig a father's blessing 
out of him, cold reason suggests that he's 
extremely apt to stab you in the gizzard 
with the pickle-fork." 

" I wish," said Bill, annoyed, " you 
wouldn't talk as though Mabel were the 
ordinary kind of chorus-girl. She's only 
on th? stage because her mother's hard-up 
and she wants to educate her little brother." 

44 I say," said Archie, concerned. " Take 
my tip, old top. In chatting the matter 
over with the pater, don't dwell too much 
on that aspect of the affair. I've been 
watching him closely, and it's about all 
he can stick, having to support me. If 
you ring in a mother and a little brother 
on him, he'll crack under the strain." 

" Well, I've got to do something about 
it. Mabel will be over here in a week." 

" Great Scot ! You never told us that." 

" Yes. She's going to be in the new 
Billington show. And, naturally, she will 
expect to meet my family. I've told her 
all about you." 

" Did you explain father to her ? " asked 

' Well, I just said she mustn't mind him, 
as his bark was worse than his bite." 

- 1 Well/' said Archie, thoughtfully, " he 
hasn't bitten me yet, so you may be right. 
But you've got to admit that he's a bit 
of a barker." 

Lucille considered. 

" Really, Bill, I think your best plan 
would be to go straight to father and tell 
him the whole thing. You don't want him 
to hear about it in a roundabout way." 

44 The trouble is that, whenever I'm with 
father, I can't think of anything to say." 

Archie found himself envying his father- 
in-law this merciful dispensation of Provi- 
dence ; for, where he himself was concerned, 
there had been no lack of eloquence on 
Bill's part. In the brief period in which 
he had known him, Bill had talked all the 
time and always on the one topic. As 

Digitized by GOOQ I C 

unpromising a subject as the tariff laws 
was easily diverted by him into a discussion 
of the absent Mabel ; and finally Archie 
had given up trying to change the conver- 

44 When I'm with father," said Bill, ** I 
sort of lose my nerve, and yammer." 

*' Dashed awkward," said Archie, politely. 
He sat up suddenly. " I say ! By Jove ! 
I know what you want, old friend ! Just 
thought of it ! " 

" That busy brain is never still," explained 

" Saw it in the paper this morning. An 
advertisement of a book, don't you know." 

44 I've no time for reading." 

44 You've time for reading this one, laddie, 
for you can't afford to miss it. It's a what- 
d'you-call-it book. What I mean to say 
is, if you read it and take its tips to heart, 
it guarantees to make you a convincing 
talker. The advertisement says so. The 
advertisement's all about a chappie whose 
name I forget, whom everybody loved 
because he talked so well. And, mark 
you, before he got hold of this book — ' The 
Personality That Wins ' was the name of 
it, if I remember rightly — he was known 
to all the lads in the office as Silent Samuel 
or something. Or it may have been Tongue- 
Tied Thomas. Well, one day he happened 
by good luck to blow in the necessary for 
the good old P. that W.'s, and now, when- 
ever they want someone to go and talk 
Rockefeller or someone into* lending them 
a million or so, they send for Samuel. Only 
now they call him Sammy the Spell-Binder 
and fawn upon him pretty copiously and 
all that. How about it, old son ? How 
do we go ? " 

41 What perfect nonsense," said Lucille. 

° I don't know," said Bill, plainly im- 
pressed. " There might be something in it." 

" Absolutely ! " said Archie. " I remem- 
ber it said, * Talk convincingly, and no man 
will ever treat you with cold, unresponsive 
indifference.' Well, cold, unresponsive indif- 
ference is just what you don't want the 
pater to treat you with, isn't it, or is it, or 
isn't it, what ? I mean, what ? " 

" It sounds all right," said Bill. 

" It is all right," said Archie. " It's a 
scheme ! I'll go farther. It's an egg ! " 

4 The idea I had," said Bill, " was to 
see if I couldn't get Mabel a job in some 
straight comedy. That would take the 
curse off the thing a bit. Then I wouldn't 
have to dwell on the chorus end of the 
business, you see." 

44 Much more sensible," said Lucille. 

" But what a deuce of a sweat," argued 
Archie. 4 ' I mean to say, having to pop 
round and nose about and all that." 

44 Aren't you willing to take a little trouble 


P. G, Wodehouse 


for your stri ken brother-in-law, worm ? '* 
said Lucille, severely. 

M Oh, absolutely I My idea was to get 
this book and coach the dear old chap. 
Rehearse him, don't you know. He could 
bone up the early chapters a bit and then 
drift rouni and try his convincing talk 
on me." 

" It might Lea good idea/ 1 said Bill, 

M WeH, I'll tell you what I'm going to 
do," said Lucille. "I'm going to get Bill 
to introduce me to his Mabel, and, if she's 
as nice as he says she is. Fll go to father and 
talk convincingly to him." 

"You're an 
ace I " said Bill. 

" Absolutely ! " 
agreed Archie, cor- 
dially. " My part- 
ner, what ! AH he 
same, we ought to 
keep the book as 
a second string, 
you know. I mean 
to say, you are a 
young and deli- 
cately nurtured 
girl' — full of 
sensibility and 
shrinking what's- 
its-name and all 
that — and you 
know what the 
jolly old pater is. 
He might bark at 
you and put you 
right out of action 
in the first round. 
Well, then, don't 
you see, we could 
unleash old Bill, 
the trained silver- 
tongued expert, 
on him, and have 
him weak in no 
time, Personally, 
I'm all for the P. 
that W/s." 

Lucille looked at 
her watch, 

(< Good gracious ! It's nearly one o'clock ! " 

H No I " Archie heaved himself up from 
his chair. " Well, it's a shame to break 
up this feast of reason and flow of soul 
and all that, but, if we don't leg it with 
some speed, we shall be late/ 1 

" We're lunching at the Nicholsons'/' 
explained Lucille to her brother. Ht 1 wish 
you were coming too/' 

44 Lunch 1 " BUI shook his head with 
a kind of tolerant scorn* M Lunch means 
nothing to me these days. I've other things 
to think of besides food/* He looked 

• Digitized by GoOgk 

"Archie was uncomfortably aware that 

she was practising his English accent 

for the benefit of her colleagues/* 

as spiritual as his rugged features 
would permit, " I haven't written 
to Her yet to-day/' 

" But r dash it, old egg, if she's 
going to be over here in a week, 
what's the good of writing > The 
letter would cross her/* 

4 I'm not mailing my letters to 
England/' said Bill "I'm keep- 
ing them for her to read when 
she arrives/' 

" My sainted 
aunt!" said 

Devotion like 
this was some- 
thing beyond his 

THE Person- 
ality That 
Wins" cost 
Archie two dol- 
lars in cash and 
a lot of embar- 
rassment when 
he asked for it 
at the store, To 
buy a treatise of 
that name would 
a u tomatically 
seem to argue that you haven't a 
winning personality already, and 
Archie was at some pains to ex- 
plain to the girl behind the counter 
that he wanted it for a friend, The 
girl seemed more interested in his 
English accent than in his explana- 
tion, and Archie was uncomfortably 
aware, as he receded, that she was 
practising it in an undertone for 
the bene Jit of her colleagues and 
fellow- workers. However, what is 
a little discomfort, if endured in 
friendship's name ? Archie left the 
book at Bill's club, and went his 
way with the consciousness of a 
good deed done. 

Some days later, Lucille, return- 
ing one morning to their mutual 
suite, found her husband seated in 
an upright chair at the table, an unusually 
stern expression on his amiable face. A 
large cigar was in the corner of his mouth. 
The fingers of one hand rested in the arm- 
hole of his waistcoat ; with the other hand 
he tapped menacingly on the table. 

Lucille was aware of Bill's presence. He 
had emerged sharply from the bedroom and 
walked briskly across the floor. 
" Father ! '' said Bill. 

14 Well, my boy, 1 ' said Archie, in a rasping 
voice, frowning heavily over the cigar, 
"What is it ? Speak up, speak up ! Why 
Original from 



" Paving, the Way fofr Mabel " 

the devil can't you speak up ? This is 
my busy day ! " 

" What on earth are you doing ? " asked 

Archie waved her away with the large 
gesture of a man of blood and iron interrupted 
while concentrating. 

44 Leave us, woman ! We would be alone ! 
Retire into the jolly old background and 
amuse yourself for a bit. Read a book ! 
Do acrostics ! Charge ahead, laddie ! " 

" Father ! " said Bill, again. 

4 Yes, my boy, yes ? What is it ? " 

" Father ! " 

Archie picked up the red-covered volume 
that lay on the table. 

" Half a mo', old son. Sorry to stop 
you, but I knew there was something. 
I've just remembered. Your walk. All 
wrong ! " 

" All wrong ? " 

11 All wrong ! Where's the chapter on 
the Art of Walking ? Here we are. Listen, 
deal old soul. , Drink this in. 'In walking, 
one should strive to acquire that swinging 
easy movement from the hips. The cor- 
rectly-poised walker seems to float along, 
as it were.' Now, old bean, you didn't 
float a dam' bit. You just galloped in 
like a chappie charging into a railway 
restaurant for a bowl of soup when his 
train leaves in two minutes; Dashed impor- 
tant, this walking business, you know. 
Get started wrong, and where are you ? 
Try it again. . . . Much better." He turned 
to Lucille. " Notice him float along that 
time ? Absolutely skimmed, what ? " 

Lucille had taken a seat, and was waiting, 
for enlightenment. 

" Are you and Bill going into vaudeville ? " 
she asked. 

Archie, scrutinizing his brother-in-law 
closely, had further criticism to make. 

44 ' The man of self-respect and self- 
confidence/ " he read, " ' stands erect in 
an easy, natural, graceful attitude. Heels 
not too far apart, head erect, eyes to the 
front with a level gaze ' — get your gaze 
level, old thing ! — ' shoulders thrown back, 
arms hanging naturally at the sides when 
not otherwise employed ' — that means that, 
if he swings on you, it's all right to guard 
— ' chest expanded naturally, and abdomen ' 
— this is no place for you, Lucille. Leg 
it out of earshot — ' ab— what I said before 
— drawn in somewhat and above all not 
protruded.' Now, have you got all that ? 
Yes, you look all right. Carry on, laddie, 
carry on. Let's have two-penn'orth of 
the Dynamic Voice and the Tone of Autho- 
rity — some of the full, rich, round stuff 
we hear so much about ! " 

Bill fastened a gimlet eye upon his brother- 
in-law and drew a deep breath. 

" Father ! " he said. " Father ! " 

44 You'll have to brighten up Bill's dialogue 
a lot," said Lucille, critically, " or you will 
never get bookings." 

" Father ! " 

" I mean, it's all right as far as it goes, 
but it's sort of monotonous. Besides, one 
of you ought to be asking questions and 
the other answering. Bill ought to be 
saying, ' Who was that lady I saw you 
coming down the street with ? ' so that you 
would be able to say, ' That wasn't a lady. 
That was my wife.' I know! I've been 
to lots of vaudeville shows." 

Bill relaxed his attitude. He deflated 
his chest, spread his heels, and ceased to 
draw in his abdomen. 

" We'd better try this another time, 
when we're alone," he said, frigidly. " I 
can't do myself justice." 

" Why do you want to do yourself jus- 
tice ? " asked Lucille. 

" Right-o ! " said Archie, affably, casting 
off his forbidding expression like a garment. 
" Rehearsal postponed. I was just putting 
old Bill through it," he explained, - with 
a view to getting him into mid-season form 
for the jolly old pater." 

"Oh!" Lucille 's voice was the voice 
of one who sees light in darkness. " When 
Bill walked in like a cat on hot bricks and 
stood there looking stuffed, that was just 
the Personality, That Wins ! " 

" That was it." 

" Well, you couldn't blame me for not 
recognizing it, cc>uld you ? " 

Archie patted her head paternally. 

" A little less of the caustic critic stuff," 
he said. " Bill will be all right on the night. 
If you hadn't come in then and put him off 
his stroke, he'd have shot out some amazing 
stuff, full of authority and dynamic accents 
and what not. I tell you, light of my soul, 
old Bill is all right ! He's got the winning 
personality up a tree, ready whenever he 
wants to go and get it. Speaking as his 
backer and trainer, I think he'll twist your 
father round his little finger. Absolutely ! 
It wouldn't surprise me if at the end of five 
minutes the good old dad started jumping 
through hoops and sitting up for lumps of 

" It would surprise me." 

44 Ah, that's because you haven't seen old 
Bill in action. You crabbed his act before 
he had begun to spread himself." 

" It isn't that at all. The reason why I 
think that Bill, however winning his person- 
ality may be, won't persuade father to let 
him marry a girl in the chorus is something 
that happened last night." 

" Last night ? " 

" Well, at three o'clock this morning. 
It's on the front page of the early editions 


.- 1 I •_! 1 1 I '.I I I I '_• I ll 


P. G. Wodehouse 


of the evening 
papers, 1 
bi ought one in 
(or you to see, 
only you were so 
busy, Lookl 
There it is ! " 

Archie seized 
the paper. 

"Oh, Great 
Scot ! " 

" What is it ? " 
asked Bill, irri- 
tably. "'Don't 
stand goggling 
there 1 What the 
devil is it ? M 

" Listen to this, 
old thing ! " 








The logical con- 
tender for Jack 
Dempsey's cham- 
pionship honours 
has been dis- 
covered: and, in an 
age where women 
aTe stealing men's 
jobs all the time, it 
will not come as 
a surprise to our 
readers to learn 
that she belongs to 
the sex that is more 
deadly than the 
male. Her name is 
Miss Pauline Pres- 
ton, and her wallop is vouched for under oath — 
under many oaths — by Mr, Timothy O'Neill, 
known to his intimates as Pie- Face, who 
holds down the arduous job of detective at 
the Hotel Cosmopolis. 

At three o'clock this morning, Mr, O'Neill 
was advised by the night-clerk that the 
occupants of every room within earshot of 
number 6l8 had 'phoned the desk to complain 
of a disturbance, a noise, a vocal uproar pro- 
ceeding from the room mentioned. Thither, 
therefore, marched Mr, O'Neill, his face full 
of cheese- sandwich (for he had been indulging 
in an early breakfast or a late supper) and his 
heart of devotion to duty. He found there 
the Misses Pauline Preston and '* Bobbie " 
St, Clair, of the personnel of the chorus of the 
Frivolities, entertaining a few friends of either 

sex. A pleasant time was being had by all, 
and at the moment of Mr, O'Neill's entry 
the entire strength of the company was 
rendering with considerable emphasis that 
touching" ballad, ,H There's a Place For Me 
In Heaven, For My Baby- Boy Is 

The able and efficient officer at 
once suggested that there was a 
place for them in the street and the 
patrol -wagon would soon be waiting 
there: and, being a man of action 
as well as words, proceeded to gather 
up an armful of assorted guests as 
a preliminary to a personally -con- 
ducted tour into the cold night. 

The man of s=lf- respect 
in an easy, 

by ^OOglC 

A Wtt- 

and self- confidence/ he read, * stands erect 
natural, graceful attitude/ " 

It was at this point that Miss Preston 
stepped into the limelight. Mr. O'Neill 
contends that she hit him with a brick, an 
iron casing, and the Singer Building, Be that 
as it may, her efforts were sufficiently able to 
induce him to retire for reinforcements, which, 
arriving, arrested the supper-party regardless 
oi age or sex. 

At the police-court this morning Miss 
Preston maintained that she and her friends 
were merely having a quiet home-evening and 
that Mr, O'Neill was no gentleman- The male 
guests gave their names respectively as 
Wood row Wilson, Grover Cleveland, and 
William J\ Bryan, These, however, are be- 
lieved to be incorrect, But the moral is, if 
you want excitement rather than sleep, stay 
at the Hotel Cosmopolis, 



" Paving the Way fof Mabel " 

Bill may have quaked inwardly as he 
listened to this epic, but outwardly he was 

" Well," he said. " what about it ? " 

" What about it ! " said Lucille. 

4 * What about it ! " said Archie. " Why, 
my dear old friend, it simply means that 
all the time we've been putting in making 
your personality winning has been chucked 
away. Absolutely a dead loss ! We might 
just as well have read a manual on how to 
knit sweaters." 

" I don't see it," maintained Bill, stoutly. 
Lucille turned apologetically to her husband. 

" You mustn't judge me by him, Archie, 
darling. This sort of thing doesn't run in 
the family. We are supposed to be rather 
bright on the whole. But poor Bill was 
dropped by his nurse when he was a baby, 
and fell on his head." 

" I suppose what you're driving at," said 
the goaded Bill, " is that what has happened 
will make father pretty sore against girls 
who happen to be in the chorus ? " 

1 That's absolutely it, old thing, I'm 
sorry to say. The next person who mentions 
the word chorus-girl in the jolly old governor's 
presence is going to take his life in his hands. 
I tell you, as one man to another, that I'd 
much rather be back in France hopping 
over the top than do it myself." 

" What darned nonsense ! Mabel may be 
in the chorus, but she isn't like those girls." 

" Poor old Bill ! " said Lucille. " I'm 
awfully sorry, but it's no use not facing 
facts. You know perfectly well that the 
reputation of the hotel is the thing father 
cares more about than anything else in the 
world, and that this is going to make him 
furious with all the chorus-girls in creation. 
It's no good trying to explain to him that 
your Mabel is in the chorus but not of the 
chorus, so to speak." 

" Deuced well put ! " said Archie, approv- 
ingly. M You're absolutely right. A chorus- 
girl by the river's brim, so to speak, 
a simple chorus-girl is to him, as it were, and 
she is nothing more, if you know what I 

" So now," said Lucille, " having shown 
you that the imbecile scheme which you 
cortcocted with my poor well-meaning hus- 
band is no good at all, I will bring you words 
of cheer. Your own original plan — of getting 
your Mabel a part in a comedy — was always 
the best one. And you can do it. I 
wouldn't have broken the bad news so 
abruptly if I hadn't had some consolation 
to give you afterwards. I met Reggie van 
Tuyl just now, wandering about as if the 
cares of the world were on his shoulders, and 
he told me that he was putting up most of 
the money for a new play that's going into 
rehearsal right away. Reggie's an old 

Digitized by CjOOQ I C 

friend of yours. All you have to do is to 
go to him and ask him to use his influence to 
get your Mabel a small part. There's sure 
to be a maid or something with only a line 
or two that won't matter." 

" A ripe scheme ! " said Archie. " Very 
sound and fruity ! " 

The cloud did not lift from Bill's corru- 
gated brow. 

" That's all very well," he said. " But 
you know what a talker Reggie is. He's an 
obliging sort of chump, but his tongue's 
fastened on at the middle and waggles at 
both ends. I don't want the whole of New 
York to know about my engagement, and 
have somebody spilling the news to father, 
before I'm ready." 

11 That's all right," said Lucille. " Archie 
can speak to him. There's no need for him 
to mention your name at all. He can just 
say there's a girl he wants to get a part for. 
You would do it, wouldn't you, angel-face ? " 

" Like a bird, queen of my soul." 

" Then that's splendid. You'd better 
give Archie that photograph of Mabel to 
give to Reggie, Bill." 

" Photograph ? " said Bill. " Which pho- 
tograph ? I have twenty-four I " 

ARCHIE found Reggie van Tuyl brood- 
ing in a window of his club that 
looked over Fifth Avenue. Reggie 
was one of the first friends Archie had 
made on his arrival in America. He was 
a rather melancholy young man who suf- 
fered from elephantiasis of the bank-roll and 
the other evils that arise from that com- 
plaint. Gentle and sentimental by nature, 
his sensibilities had been much wounded 
by contact with a sordid world ; and the 
thing that had first endeared Archie to him 
was the fact that the latter, though chroni- 
cally hard-up, had never made any attempt 
to borrow money from him. Reggie would 
have parted with it on demand, but it had 
delighted him to find that Archie seemed to 
take a pleasure in his society without having 
any ulterior motives. He was fond of 
Archie, and also of Lucille ; and their happy 
marriage was a constant source of gratifica- 
tion to him. 

For Reggie was a sentimentalist. He 
would have liked to live in a world of ideally 
united couples, himself ideally united to 
some charming and affectionate girl. But, 
as a matter of cold fact, he was a bachelor, 
and most of the couples he knew veterans of 
several divorces. In Reggie's circle, there- 
fore, the home-life of Archie and Lucille 
shone like a good deed in a naughty world. 
It inspired him. In moments of depression 
it restored his waning faith in human nature. 

Consequently, when Archie, having greeted 

him and slipped into a chair at his side, 

Ur i y i n d i iro m 


P. G. Wodehouse 


suddenly produced from his inside pocket 
the photograph of an extremely pretty girl 
and asked him to get her a small part in the 
play which he was financing, he was shocked 
and disappointed, He was in a more than 
usually sentimental mood that afternoon, 
and had, indeed, at the moment of Archie's 
arrival, been dreaming wistfully o* soft arms 
clasp d snugly about his collar and the 
patter of little feet and all that sort of thing. 
He gazed reproachfully at Archie- 

" Archie ! " His voice quivered with emo- 
tion. " Is it worth it ? Is it worth it, old 
man ? Think of the poor little woman at 
home ! H 

Archie was puzzled. 

" Eh p old top ? Which poor little woman?" 

iJ Think of her trust in you, her faith " 

" I don't absolutely get you, old bean." 
" What would Lucille say if she knew 
about this ? " 

" Gh, she does. She knows all about it + ,f 
M Good heavens ! " cried Reggie. He was 
shocked to the core of his being. One of 
the articles of his faith was that the union 
of Lucille and Archie was different from 
those loose partnerships which were the 
custom in his world. He had not been 
conscious of such a poignant feeling that the 
foundations of the 
universe were 
cracked and tot- 
tering and that 
there was no light 
and sweetness in 
life since the 
morning, eighteen 
mon ths back, 
when a negligent 
valet had sent him 
out into Fifth 
Avenue with only 
one spat on, 

"It was Lu- 
ciUe's idea/' ex- 
plained Archie. 
He was about to 
mention his 
brother - in - law's 
connection with 
the matter, but 
checked himself 
in time, remem- 
bering Bill's 
specific objection 
to having his 
secret revealed to 
Reggie. " It's 
like this, old 
thing, I've never 
met this female, 
but she's a pal of 
Lucille J s " — he 
comforted his 

conscience by the reflection that, if she 
wasn't now, she would be in a few days — 
" and Lucille wants to do her a bit of good. 
She's been on the stage in England, you 
know, supporting a jolly old widowed 
mother and educating a little brother and 
all that kind and species of rot, you under- 
stand, and now she's coming over to America, 
and Lucille wants you to rally round and 
shove her into your show and generally 
keep the home fires burning and so forth. 
How do we go ? " 

Reggie beamed with relief. He felt just 
as he had felt on that other occasion at 
the moment when a taxi-cab had roiled up 
and enabled him to hide his spat less leg 
from the public gaze. 

" Oh, I see !" he said, fI Why, delighted, 
old man, quite delighted ! " 

" Any small part would do. Isn't there 
a maid or something in your bob's-worth 
of refined entertainment who drifts about 
saying, * Yes, madam/ and all that sort of 
thing ? Well, then, that's just the thing. 
Topping ! I knew I could rely on you, old 
bird. I'll gjt Lucille to ship her round to 
your address when she arrives. I fancy she's 
due to totter in somewhere in the next few 
days. Well, I must be popping. Toodle-00 ! " 

" Pip- pip ! u said Reggie, 


Brewster called him a fool 
go away/ 1 

T was about a week later that Lucille 

came into the suite a * the Hotel Cosmo- 

polis that was her home, and found 

Archie lying on the couch, smoking a 

refreshing pipe after the labours of the 

day. It seamed to Archie that his wife was 

not in her usual 
cheerful frame of 
mind* He kissed 
her, and, having 
relieved her of 
her parasol, en- 
deavoured with- 
out success to 
balance it on his 
chin. Having 
picked it up from 
the floor and 
placed it on the 
table, he became 
aware that Lu- 
cille was looking 
at him in a 
despondent sort 
of way. Her 
grey eyes were 

" Halloa, old 
thing," said 
Archie, "What's 
up? " 

Lucille sighed 

and told him to 

by Google 

Original from 


" Paving the Way for Mabel " 

" Archie, darling, do you know any really 
good swear-words ? " 

" Well," said Archie, reflectively, " let 
me see. I did pick up a few tolerably 
ripe and breezy expressions out in France. 
All through my military career there was 
something about me — some subtle magne- 
tism, don't you know, and that sort of 
thing — that seemed to make colonels and 
blighters of that order rather inventive. 
I sort of inspired them, don't you know. 
I remember one brass-hat addressing me 
for quite ten minutes, saying something 
new all the time. And even then he seemed 
to think he had only touched the fringe 
of the subject. As a matter of fact, he 
said straight out in the most frank and 
confiding way that mere words couldn't 
do justice to me. But why ? " 

" Because I want to relieve my feelings." 

" Anything wrong ? " 

" Everything's wrong. I've just been 
having tea with Bill and his Mabel." 

" Oh, ah ! " said Archie, interested. 
" And what's the verdict ? " 

" Guilty ! " said Lucille. "And the sen- 
tence, if I had anything to do with it, 
would be transportation for life." She 
peeled off her gloves irritably. " What 
fools men are ! Not you, precious ! You're 
the only man in the world that isn't, it 
seems to me. You did marry a nice girl, 
didn't you ? You didn't go running round 
after females with crimson hair, goggling 
at them with your eyes popping out of 
your head like a bulldog waiting for a 

"Oh, I say ! Does old Bill look like 
that ? " 

." Worse ! " 

Archie rose to a point of order. 

" But one moment, old lady. You speak 
of crimson hair. Surely old Bill — in the 
extremely jolly monologues he used to 
deliver whenever I didn't see him coming 
and he got me alone — used to allude to 
her hair as brown." 

" It isn't brown now. It's bright scarlet. 
Good gracious, I ought to know. I've 
been looking at it all the afternoon. It 
dazzled me. If I've got to meet her again, 
I mean to go to the oculist's and get a 
pair of those smoked glasses you wear at 
Palm Beach." Lucille brooded silently for 
a while over the tragedy. " I don't want 
to say anything against her, of course." 

" No, no, of course not." 

" But of all the awful, second-rate girls 
I ever met, she's the worst ! She has 
vermilion hair and an imitation Oxford 
manner. She's so horribly refined that it's 
dreadful to listen to her. She's a sly, 
creepy, slinky, made-up, insincere vampire ! 
She's common ! She's awful ! She's a cat ! " 


" You're quite right not to say anything 
against her," said Archie, approvingly. 
"It begins to look," he went on, " as if 
the good old pater was about due for another 
shock. He has a hard life ! " 

M If Bill dares to introduce that girl to 
father, he's taking his life in his hands." 

" But surely that was the idea — the 
scheme — the wheeze, wasn't it ? Or do 
you think there's any chance of his weak- 
ening ? " 

" Weakening ! You should have seen 
him looking at her ! It was like a small 
boy flattening his nose against the window 
of a candy-store." 

" Bit thick ! " 

Lucille kicked the leg of the table. 

" And to think," she said, " that, when 
I was a little girl, I used to look up to Bill 
as a monument of wisdom. I used to hug 
his knees and gaze into his face and wonder 
how anyone could be so magnificent." She 
gave the unoffending table another kick. 
44 If I could have looked into the future," 
she said, with feeling, "I'd have bitten 
him in the ankle ! " 

IN the days which followed, Archie found 
himself a little out of touch with Bill 
and his romance. Lucille referred to the 
matter only when he brought the subject up, 
and made it plain that the topic of her future 
sister-in-law was not one which she enjoyed 
discussing. Mr. Brewster, senior, wh&v 
Archie, by way of. delicately preppuiiig 
his mind for what was aboiit f o befall* 
asked him if he liked red hair, called him 
a fool, and told him to go atway^and bdftoer 
someone else when' they were busy. The 
only person who could have kept him 
thoroughly abreast of the trend of affairSj 
was BUI himself ; and experience had made 
Archie wary in the matter of meeting Bill, 
The position of confidant to a young man 
in the early stages of love is no sinecure, 
and it made Archie sleepy even to think 
of having to talk to his brother-in-law. He 
sedulously avoided his lovelorn relative, 
and it was with a sinking feeling one day 
that, looking over his shoulder as he sat 
in the Cosmopolis grill-room preparatory 
to ordering lunch, he perceived Bill bearing 
down upon him, obviously resolved upon 
joining his meal. 

To his surprise, however, Bill did not 
instantly embark upon his usual monologue. 
Indeed, he hardly spoke at all. He champed 
a chop, and seemed to Archie to avoid his 
eye. It was not till lunch was over and 
they were smoking that he unburdened 

" Archie ! " he said. 

" Halloa, old thing ! " said Archie. " Still 
there ? I thought you'd died or something. 


P. G. Wodehouse 


Bill Brewster was leaning forward with bulging eyes. * Are you engaged to 

Mabel Winchester?*" 

Talk about our old pals. Tongue-tied " It's enough to make me silent." 

Thomas and Silent Sammy! You could " What is ?-C; a \ ns \ f rorn 

beat 'em both on the same evening. 1 * 


" Paving the Way for Mabel 


dream. He sat frowning sombrely, lost 
to the world. Archie, having waited what 
seemed to him a sufficient length of time 
for an answer to his question, bent forward 
and touched his brother-in-law's hand gently 
with the lighted end of his cigar. Bill 
came to himself with a howl. 

" What is ? " said Archie. 

"What is what ? " said Bill. 

" Now listen, old thing," protested Archie. 
" Life is short and time is flying. Suppose 
we cut out the cross-talk. You hinted there 
was something on your mind — something 
worrying the old bean — and I'm waiting to 
hear what it is." 

Bill fiddled a moment with his coffee- 

'* I'm in an awful hole," he said at last. 

" What's the trouble ? " 

" It's about that darned girl ! " 

Archie blinked. 

" What ! " 

" That darned girl ! " 

Archie could scarcely credit his senses. 
He had been prepared — indeed, he had 
steeled himself — to hear Bill allude to his 
affinity in a number of ways. But ' tkit 
darned girl " was not one of them. 

" Companion of my riper years," he 
said, " let's get this thing straight. When 
you say ' that darned girl,' do you by any 
possibility allude to ? " 

" Of course I do ! " 
But, William, old bird- 

" Oh, I knov^ I know, 1 know ! " said 
Bill, irritably. M You're surprised to hear 
me talk like that about her ? " 

" A trifle, yes. Possibly a trifle. When 
last heard from, laddie, you must recollect, 
you were speaking of the lady as your 
soul-mate, and at least once — if I remember 
rightly — you alluded to her as your little 
dusky-haired lamb." 

A sharp howl escaped Bill. 

" Don't ! " A strong shudder convulsed 
his frame. " Don't remind me of it ! " 

" There's been a species of slump, then 
— yes ? — no ? — in dusky-haired lambs ? " 

" How," demanded Bill, savagely, " can 
a girl be a dusky-haired lamb when her 
hair's bright scarlet ? " 

" Dashed difficult ! " admitted Archie. 

" I suppose Lucille told you about 
that ? " 

" She did touch on it. Lightly, as it 
were. With a sort of gossamer touch, so 
to speak." 

Bill threw off the last fragments of 

" Archie, I'm in the devil of a fix. I 
don't know why it was, but directly I 
saw her — things seemed so different over 
in England — I mean." He swallowed ice- 
water in gulps. " I suppose it was seeing 

by LiOOgle 

her with Lucille. Old Lu is such a thorough- 
bred. Seemed to kind of show her up. 
Like seeing imitation pearls by the side of 
real pearls. And that crimson hair ! It sort 
of put the lid on it." Bill brooded morosely. 
" It ought to be a criminal offence for women 
to dye their hair. Especially red. What the 
devil do women do that sort of thing for ? " 

" Don't blame me, old thing. It's not 
my fault." 

Bill looked furtive and harassed. 

"It makes me feel such a cad ! Here 
am I, feeling that I would give all I've got 
in the world to get out of the darned thing, 
and all the time the poor girl seems to bs 
getting fonder of me than ever." 

" How do you know ? " Archie surveyed 
his brother-in-law critically. " Perhaps her 
feelings have changed too. Very possibly 
she may not like the colour of your hair. 
I don't myself. Now, if you were to dye 
yourself crimson " 

" Oh, shut up ! Of course a man knows 
when a girl's fond of him." 

"By no means, laddie. When you're 
my age " 

" I am your age." 

" So you are ! I forgot that. Well, 
now, approaching the matter from another 
angle, let us suppose, old son, that Miss 
What's- Her-Name — the party of the second 
part " 

" Stop it ! " said Bill, suddenly. " Here 
comes Reggie ! " 

11 Eh ? " 

" Here comes Reggie van Tuyl. I don't 
want him to hear us talking about the 
darned thing." 

Archie looked over his shoulder and per- 
ceived that it was indeed so. Reggie was 
threading his way among the tables. 

" Well, he looks pleased with things, 
anyway," said Bill, enviously. " Glad some- 
body's happy." 

He was right. Reggie van Tuyl's usual 
mode of progress through a restaurant 
was a somnolent slouch. Now he was 
positively bounding along. Furthermore, 
the usual expression on Reggie's face was 
a sleepy sadness. Now he smiled brightly 
and with animation. He curveted towards 
their table, beaming and erect, his head 
up, his gaze level, and his chest expanded, 
for all the world as if he had been reading 
the hints in " The Personality That Wins." 

Archie was puzzled. Something had plainly 
happened to Reggie. But what ? It was 
idle to suppose that somebody had left 
him money, for he had been left practically 
all the money there was a matter of ten 
years before. 

" Halloa, old bean," he said, as the new- 
comer, radiating good will and bonhomie, 
arrived at the table and hung over it like 

k_r \ | LI I I I '.1 I I I nj I I 


■< P. G. Wodehouse 


J ust on my 
in because I 
I wanted you 

a noon-day sun. "We've finished. But 
rally round and we'll watch you eat. Dashed 
interesting, watching old Reggie eat. Why 
go to the Zoo I " 

Reggie shook his head, 

"Sorry, old man. Can't, 
way to the Ritz. Stepped 
thought you might be here, 
to be the first to hear the news." 

11 News > M 

"I'm the happiest man alive ! " 

M You look it, darn you I " growled Bill, 
on whose mood of grey gloom this human 
sunbeam was jarring heavily, 

M I'm engaged to be married ! " 

" Congratulations, old egg ! " Archie 
shook his hand cordially, " Dash it, don't 
you know, as an old married man I like to 
see you young fellows settling down," 

" I don't know how to thank you enough, 
Archie, old man," said Reggie, fervently, 

" Thank me ? M 

" It was through you that 1 met her. 
Don't you remember the girl you sent to 
me ? You wanted me to get her a small 
part- " 

He stopped, puzzled. Archie had uttered 
a sound that was half gasp and half gurgle, 
but it was swallowed up in the extraordinary 
noise from the other side of the table. 
Bill Brewster was leaning forward with 
bulging eyes and soaring eyebrows. 

" Are you engaged to Mabel Winchester ? " 

" Why, by George 1 * said Reggie. " Do 
you know her ? M 

Archie recovered himself P 

" k Slightly/' he said. " Slightly, Old Bill 
knows her slightly, as it were. Not very 
well, don't you know, but — how shall I 
put it ? " 

1 Slightly," said Bill. 

" Just the word, Slightly," 

Next month : " Washy 

" Splendid ! " said Reggie van TuyL 
** Why don't you come along to the Kitz 
and meet her now ? u 

Bill stammered. Archie came to the 
rescue again. 

" Bill can't come now. He's got a date/* 

" A date? " said Bill. 

'* A date/' said Archie. ,+ An appoint- 
ment, don't you know. A — a— in fact, a 

M But — er — wish her happiness from me/' 
said Bill, cordially, 

M Thanks very much, old man/* said ' 

" And say I'm delighted, will you ? " 

" Certainly." 

" You won't forget the word, will you ? 

" Delighted/* 

" That's right. Delighted," 

Reggie looked at his watch, 

* l Halloa ! I must rush ! " 

Bill and Archie watched him as he bounded 
out of the restaurant, 

"Poor old Reggie!" said Bill, with a 
fleeting compunction. 

' Not necessarily/' said Archie. " What 
I mean to say is, tastes differ, don't you 
know. One man's peach is another man's 
poison, and vice versa.' 

" There's something in that/ 1 

" Absolutely 1 Well/* said Archie, judi- 
cially, " this would appear to be, as it were, 
the maddest, merriest day in all the glad 
New Year, yes, no ? " 

Bill drew a deep breath. 

11 You bet your sorrowful existence it 
is ! M he said* "I'd Jike to do something 
to celebrate it," 

" The right spirit ! " said Archie. " Abso- 
lutely the right spirit ! Begin by paying 
for my lunch ! " 

Makes His Presence FellS' 

by Google 


A STATELY pine, with a little skill, can easily 
be made to look quite grotesque* If you 
doubt it, observe the pine here. Yes, it 
is a pine, though it looks more like a starving, 
weak-kneed deer. The body, legs, and tail 
are one slice of the pine tree, and the head 
and horns another. 

The owner simply put the head and body 
together, nailed two axle-grease boxes to 
the head for eyes, and stood the creature 
on its legs* It is a strange-looking beast, 
but its master is quite proud of it, since he 
discovered it, 

Original from 

7 6 



GROWING down amongst the pastures 
there is a kind of glorified dande- 
lion ; indeed, but for its tall stem 
and long, grass-like leaves the un- 
observant passer-by might regard its flowers 
as those of that plant. The country children 
will tell you, however, that it is " Jack-go-to- 
bed-at-noon M — a name acquired from its 
habit of closing up its flow er^ heads about 

This habit of " going to sleep/ 1 as it is 
popularly called, so early in the day is a 
most interesting action on the part of the 
plant and throws some considerable light on 
its past history. It is rarely, if ever, that 
man does anything or invents any mechanism 
which has not been anticipated in some form 
in the natural world* When in the early 
stages of the war the Government brought 
about the early closing of public- houses as a 
means of preventing drinking abuses, even 
that action had been forestalled ages before 
in natural warfare. The " sleeping ,p Jack- 
go-to- bed -at- noon is simply a closed drink 
establishment — closed against its insect 

The majority of plants open their flowers 

by Google 

and expose their brilliant petals to the 
brightest sunlight, at the same time wafting 
out Sweet odours to attract distant insects 
that may not be close enough to see their 
colour display. It is then, too, that the 
sweet nectar in such flowers flows in 
abundance to quench the thirst of the 
numerous insect callers attracted by the 
alluring scents and gaudy signboards. Why, 
then, does Jack-go- to- bed -at- noon put up the 
shutters just before the busiest hours of the 
day ? 

Now, before considering that question, let 
us inquire what time Jack- go-to- bed -at-nnon 
commences business. You will have to rise 
very early if you wish to see 4i Jack " open 
his shutters, for, in fine weather, it is generally 
between three and four a.m. The dandelion, 
a kind of cousin of Jack-go-to-hed-at-noon, 
behaves somewhat differently, and does not 
open its flower-heads until about seven a.m., 
closing them again about three or four p,m. 
During wet and cold weather both plants 
will often keep their flowers closed the whole 
of the day. There is little doubt that these 
differences of behaviour have intimate re- 
lation with their special insect visitors. 
Original from 




Illustrated with Photographs by the Author, 


In the first place, we have to recognize 
that flowers are visited by many unbidden 
insect guests, and that at the brightest hours 
of sunlight the chances of such visits become 
increasingly numerous . Flower-heads of the 
dandelion type are particularly attractive to 
various kinds of insects on account of their 
rich flow of nectar. Miiller, who made 
special observations regarding the dandelion, 
recorded that ninety-three distinct species of 
insects visited the blooms of that plant ; and, 
although no actual records are available for 
Jack-go- to- bed-at-noon, it is probable that 
the insect species visiting it would be equally 
numerous, if not more so, as it bears bolder 
and more attractive flower-heads* Amongst 
these insect species, too, some would natur- 
ally be of more value than others in effecting 
the pollination of the crowded florets in the 
flower-heads while sipping the nectar pro- 
vided for them in return for their services, 
while others would be mere honey thieves, 
stealing the overflowing honey without 
properly entering the tubes of the florets, 
and, consequently, leaving them much as 
they found them — less some of their nectar. 

There. 1 think, is the whole explanation 

by LiOOglC 

of why H Jack " goes to bed at noon — and 
often before that time. The insects which 
pollinate its flower-heads best are bees and 
their near relations, and these insects rise 
with the first rays of sunlight. Later in the 
morning, when the heavy dew is off the 
herbage, come ants and creeping insects, 
most of which are honey thieves, reaching 
'the flower-heads by way of their stems, in- 
stead of alighting from the air amidst the 
piled-up heaps of yellow pollen-dust at the 
mouths of the florets, and carrying it away 
on their dusted bodies to fertilize other 
flower-heads. The ants, on the other hand, 
carefully avoid the sticky pollen-dust, and 
select open spaces where they can delicately 
sip the overflowing cups without getting 
their limbs or bodies soiled. 

So it came about that those Jack-go-to- 
bed-at-noon plants which acquired the habit 
of opening their flower-heads earliest in the 
morning, and closed them earliest in the 
forenoon, got their florets more quickly and 
more effectually fertilized, and consequently 
produced more abundant seed ; so the habit 
became inherent. The dandelion appears to 
be following in the same direction, but has 




probably not yet attained the same perfection. 
Viewing the matter in this aspect it is 
obvious that the early dosing of such flower- 
heads is simply to prevent abuses of the 
drinking privilege — a measure found neces- 
sary even in the warfare of plant life. 

Such tactics point to a very advanced type 
of plant life ; indeed, Jack-go-to- bed -at- noon 
is a veritable aristocrat in the plant world, 
belonging to the great Com- 
posite family, which stands 
at the head of plant life just 
as man and other mammalia 
do at the head of the animal 
kingdom. The fact of it tear- 
ing flower- heads instead of 
separate flowers is another 
proof of its advanced evolu- 
tion; these tiny flowers all 
crowded together into one 
head is but another device 
to save the time of the busy 
bee, which then only has to 
withdraw its proboscis from 
one floret and insert it in 
the next, wasting no time 
in searching for the flowers, 
as in the case of scattered 

All these manoeuvres have 
but one object in view — the 
welfare of the offspring. To 
produce the sweet nectar in 
each of the florets means the 
utilization of considerable 
energy on the part of the 
plant, and it cannot afford 
to waste that energy in pro- 
viding food for unworthy 
insects which render it no 
service. At the base of each 
floret is a seed destined in 
favourable circumstances to 
pioneer new land for its 
species at some distant spot, 
and if that nectar is taken 
by the invited insect guest 
the fertilization of that seed 
will be secured. 

Then the attractive colours, having served 
their purpose, rapidly disappear, together 
with the sweet nectar, for now the plant no 
longer desires to attract insect visitors; its 
tactics henceforth are to woo the wings of 
the wind. 

As each fruit matures, at its summit 
appears a kind of narrow beat which elon- 
gates and then expands at its apex into a 
series of radiating ribs which open out like 
umbrella- wires, each being feathered along 
its length, and eventually forming the most 
perfect tittle parachute it is possible to 

** Ages before man ever used a 

parachute ' Jack- go -to -bed- at- 

noon ' had completely perfected 

the idea/' 

conceive. Ages before man ever used a 
parachute Jack-go-to-bed-at-noon had com* 
pletely perfected the idea, and from its tall 
stems was, on suitable windy days, speeding 
farewell to each of its offspring as each little 
fruit sailed away a complete aeronaut to 
seek new fields for its species, 

How marvellously the flower-heads change 
into a seed- ball so soon as the fruits have 
ripened, the four photographs 
on the preceding pages, show- 
ing a week's development, 
will explain better than a 
volume of words. 

The large seed-ball, or 
" clock " of the village child- 
ren, is not easily broken, 
like that of its compeer the 
dandelion ; it requires quite a 
strong wind to break it up, 
and then away on that same 
strong breeze several of the 
ripest fruits will sail off into 
space. One is quickly car- 
ried over the meadow land 
down into the valley* to dis- 
co% ? er itself suddenly pre- 
cipitated into a deep rail- 
way cutting in the wake of a 
passing train. Away alon^ 
the cutting it goes, urged 
onward by the wind ant! 
the air movement caused bj 
the rush of the train, am: 
three - quarters of a mill 
farther on r after many cot 
lisions with the bank, 
becomes firmly anchoiv 
amongst some tall grassy 
where, if no wind or tl 
draught from another pas 
ing train removes it, it w 
gently slide down amoiit; 
the grass blades, assisted 
the elasticity of the par 
chute above it, until i 
pointed base reaches 
penetrates the soil. T f 
following summer at tl 
spot, if all has gone well, a tall Jack-go- 1 
bed-at-noon will hold up its golden ih ■ 
heads to the passing bees, and close its den 
against them as noonday draws near. 

In the same way another of the offspr; 
becomes a pioneer in new pastures, descend: 
in the midst of the newly -ploughed fi< 
staking its claim, and starting life under ■ 
most favourable conditions. Through i 
the whole of its history Jack -go- to- bed 
noon presents wonderful examples of higl. 
evolved tactics, all of which point to 
aristocratic birth. 

by Google 

Original from 


The following story, which was sent in for our Short Story Competition, was 

one of those from which the judges would have made their final selection. 

Unfortunately, however, it was found to exceed the maximum length of six 

thousand words, and therefore had to be disqualified. 



THE white road which curved over 
the first breast of the Downs did 
not lead to that house. Nor did 
the sun-faded paths nor the sheep 
tracks show the way, for there was no longer 
any road to that house, nor path nor track. 
It crouched, sullen, shunned, alone. A gate 
of rusty iron trellis linked the circle of the 
w&U, which, binding about both house and 
grounds, fenced them off from the generous 
bosom pi the broad land : a crumbling wall 
of rotting brick and lime, seamed with many 
a crevice in which the rats' eyes glinted like 
stars in hell's dark heaven, and whence the * 
squeak of the field-mouse echoed faintly 
the plaint of that corroded gate. Within the 
wall dark evergreen trees stood in closed 
ranks, hanging their listless arms, like 
mourners round an open grave ; dark 
foreign pines, a blot upon the broad still 
sea of interminable grass. 

The setting sun could lend no warmth to 
those chill trees. It trailed ribbons of gay 
glory across the Downs — orange, yellow, and 
emerald, it filled the hollows with a dull lilac 
mist ; the blackberry bushes were beaten in 
pure copper; even the face of the distant 
tramp became a grotesque, chiselled of gold, 
and the tragedy of his coverings a fine cloak 
of velvet sunbeams. The rich light fell 
upon those trees and was swallowed up. 
Only one ray, down the straight and finite 
avenue, stained the front of the house and 
struck the fading lichens, which clung 
beneath the eaves, red as the seethes of 
blood from the lid of some damned witches' 

There was a child at the rust-eaten gate, 

by LiOOgle 



hand upon the latch. She was not large, 
Respite. her thirteen years; lack of warm 
clothes and of nourishment had retarded 
her growth, had wrought her features to an 
elfin sharpness. Her body was lean as any 
wild creature's, and clad in thin cotton 
ripped by the briers. Her eyes were large, 
brilliant with weeping, and on the pale 
streaked mask of her face her mouth was 
painted purple as an Eastern houri's with 
the , blackberries which she had plucked to 
stay her hunger. A forgotten daisy-crown 
was on her head, a coronet awry and faded ; 
the tangled tails of her hair, with which she 
had mopped the tears, hung damp against 
heir shoulders. 

A town child she was. No country girl 
would have dared to touch that muttering 
latch, nor country boy to filch one egg from 
the matted nests in the pines or from the 
swallows' earthenware beneath the eaves. 
A slum child, whose wits had been ground 
to a fine edge on the paving-stones — a slum 
child sent charitably upon a country holiday, 
to taste a health which she might not long 
enjoy, to see a life which she would not live, 
to find memories which she would never 
understand. That morning — a crust stolen 
from her village hostess's kitchen in her 
pocket — she had run from her town com- 
panions. Tired of exchanging taunt or 
blow with the village louts, unconsciously 
tired of so much warfare, when all her life 
had been warfare, she had sought a peace, 
taking her relish from the bramble bushes 
and chasing the butterfly for her sport. 
For some hours she had been lost. 

She stood, her hand upon the latch of the 



Haunted Houses 

gate, wondering, not at the damp decay, but 
what manner of people lived there. Her 
shadow, flung through the thin trellis, lay as 
a dark arrowhead on the viridian mosses of 
the sodden path. She clicked the iron and, 
entering, moved cautiously towards the 
house. The shadows of dusk entered with 
her, and ran upwards over the walls of that 
house, cooling the burning lichens to a duller 
red, veiling the rubies and amethysts of the 
broken window-panes. It was more cold in 
the vault of the trees than it had been on 
the Downs, and the damp struck through the 
child's poor underclothing. She shivered. 

Her untamed eyes noted the broken 
windows, the shattered roof, and saw how on 
the northern corner the wall had collapsed, 
exposing through the serrated structure of 
the brickwork stained shreds of a once merry 
wallpaper. A bat, chasing the evening flies, 
cut wild curvets against the greying sky. 
Once it flickered across her face and she shot 
out her arms, scared. 

" Keep orf ! " she cried, and then as she 
watched it, now here, now there, in its 
fantastic gambols almost an hallucination : 
" Crikey, it's a bird gorn barmy ! " 

Frightened more by the suggestion which 
this idea called up than by the thing itself, 
she hurried up the drive to the house, and, 
standing on the step, beat upon the door, 
which swung at her touch. She peered 
within. The door opened into a large kitchen, 
populated only by shadows. What light 
there was from the door and the large 
window fell upon the floor, showing the rat- 
holes and crevices in the worm-eaten boards, 
and more faintly on the great frame of the 
fireplace, which seemed a dark gateway — 
the portal of some profound mystery. All 
else was varying shadow — dim, indistin- 
guishable. As the child hesitated, a rat 
squeaked sharply and ran across the boards. 
She jerked back. She was not afraid of rats, 
with them she had companioned in many a 
city cellarage, but her nerves were now tight 
spanned. Loneliness in the crowd she had 
experienced, but the loneliness of solitude was 
strange, and the bat's madness had shocked 
her. Recovering, she recognized friend rat 
by his noise, and, feeling somewhat less alone, 
she entered the deserted house and walked 
carefully to the window. 

The room smelt of rot, of decay, and of 
death, but she did not notice this, her nostrils 
were inured to the yet more foetid odours of 
life. Here was at least shelter, here at least 
the loneliness was enclosed, the darkness a 
solid darkness which she knew, and not that 
dim expanse of a gloom which had no limits — 
height, length, breadth of infinity, negative, 
overpowering, which she could now see into 
through the window, a spacelessness and 
purity which seemed to hold an indistinct 

Digitized by ^OOgJC 

threat. Even the smells were comforting. 
But she was cold. 

THE afternoon weariness had wrung from 
her all her tears, or she would have 
sobbed, but her throat was clewed and 
paiofal. As her eyes became more accus- 
tomed to the darkness, she began to see 
objects in the lost corners, here a pile of 
stakes, there an old sieve, a broken wheel- 
barrow, and the lower part of a rickety 
stair which disappeared in the mottled 
shadows of the roof. A dark heap in the 
corner sent her creeping across the floor 
in exploration, and she found some moulder- 
ing sacks of which she began to make 
a bed. But before it was complete, the 
sound of the gate and of footsteps drove her 
first to the window, and thence again to the 
far corner, where she crouched, pulling the 
sacks about her to hide the dim clearness of 
her dress. A man was coming up the drive ; 
she knew men, a curse at one end and a 
boot at the other, and, between, a stomach 
to hold beer for the purpose of intoxication. 
The door was kicked more widely open, and, 
framed in the square set with the dosif 
behind him, was the Tramp, a black, hard^ 
edged figure, cut out as if with the nimble 
shears of some old silhouettist. He hesitated, 
peering, but the light was now insufficient, 
he could see nothing, so he sniffed instead likm 
a dog. 

M Stinks empty enough," he muttemt; 
'• wonder if the floor'll blinkin' wdihokL" 

And he put out a cautious foot. 

At sunset, the Tramp, a glorious figure 
sitting on the far Up of the Down, had seen 
the house and had sucked his yellowed teeth. 
As the sunset died, his glory had fallen from 
him, the velvet changed to rags unspeakable. 
The gilding faded from his face, revealing the 
shoddy foundation; the Hesperidean apple 
of his throat shrivelled to a weather-dried 
pippin ; the flame in his eyes sank and went 
out behind thin slits in which simplicity and 
wisdom fought a never-ending battle. He 
sucked his degraded teeth, his narrowed eyes 
looking at the house, which lay in the huge 
cup, half-way to where upon the horizon the 
last embers of the sunset were cooled to 
grey ash. 

" It's there or nowhere," said he. " There 
or nowhere ; they'll pinch me if I goes back to 
that bloomin' village. Cuss them farmers." 

He rose and began to walk down the gentle 
slope, swearing amiably whenever his feet 
slipped upon the baked and polished grass, 
for he was tired. He had run some distance 
that day. When his feet slid he flung out an 
arm to balance himself and flourished in the 
air the corpse of a healthy cockerel which 
he was carrying, the fruit of his sprint and 
also the reason thereof. 


Jan Gordon 


He, too, had stood, at the gate and fumbled 
with the latch, but he knew of the house. 

" Haunted, is it ? " he, muttered, staring 
up the sullen drive. " Well, it bioomin' well 
looks haunted." -. 

But, then, the trees were one dark mass, the 
lichens in the blue of the dusk were an evil, 
purplish hue, and the aged mottled plaster 
of the walls quivered with a thin phosphores- 
cence akin to that of the evening primrose. 
From very far away an owl gave out inter- 
mittently its weird and solemn warning. 

11 Things ain't always what they seem, 
anyhow," said the Tramp, and pulled open 
the iron gate. 

As he set his foot on the boarded floor he 
stamped, and finding it firm enough took 
immediate possession, loosing from his 
shoulders the tawdry package. of his worldly 
goods on to which he dropped the cockerel. 
To the child, crouching in her corner, em- 
bedded in mouldering sacks, he was now but. 
sounds, ominous, disembodied. 

A sudden streak of flame, and he had lit a 
match, and from the match a short end of 
candle, and immediately the shadows were* 
back again, making furtive signals in the 
corners, playing hide-and-seek in and out 
of the piled stakes, and behind the wheel- 
barrow, as the Tramp moved here and there, 
a dim Diogenes. The child cowered deeper 
in her sackcloth, buried up to the nose, 
*B$y her sharp eyes watching with a fearful 
etimity, with the expression of some half- 
cornered animal. The Tramp, slightly 
myopic, did not perceive her. He set the 
candle on the high ledge of the chimney, 
and began to burst in pieces some of the 
mouldering stakes, and with them build a 
fire on the hearthstone. When it was well 
alight he economically extinguished his petty 
candle, and the shadows were all set a-dancing 
on the walls and between the low rafters. 
With quick precision he dressed another 
stick, for a spit, ripped from the fowl entrails, 
which he flung through the open door into 
the night, and soon the bird was roasting 
over the clear wood fire. Its odour, mingled 
with the smell of the burnt feathers, filled 
the kitchen. The child sniffed eagerly, with 
sensations similar to those she had often 
experienced when, empty-bellied, she had 
hung over the grating of some East-end 

" Ghosts," said the Tramp to himself ; 
41 so them yokels say. All stomick and no 
'ead, that's wot they is." 

He spat reflectively into the flames. 

" Wish I 'ad some 'baccy — I'd make 
ghosts all right." 

When the chicken was cooked, he wrenched 
it greedily apart, devouring all its detach- 
ments with gusto. Successively, legs and 
wings were gnawed to the bone. The child, 


eager-eyed, watched him. The carcass he 
turned over in his hands, as if reluctant to 
spare, and then rising, set it on the ledge of 
the mantelshelf, 

" Breakfass," he said ; "you'll do better 
for breakfass, ole bird," and set himself to 
breaking more sticks. Then,, dragging the 
bundle from where he had flung it by the 
door, he arranged it as-a pillow, and lay down 
on the warmed hearthstone. In ten minutes 
he was asleep. His slumber filled the kitchen 
with triumphant solo, a riotous slumber 
scorning the insistent quiet of that house, 
as his life scorned the decencies of ordered 

But the child was not asleep. She Crouched, 
daisy-crowned, in her . sacks, like some 
bedraggled wood-sprite, half escaping from 
the earth but very awake. Sleep may be the 
poor man's meal, but it becomes a sorry and 
an impossible substitute when rich roasted 
odours fill the nostrils. Dimly she could 
see the vague shape of the cockerel's carcass 
in the upper gloom of the chimney-piece. It 
made her a voiceless cry far louder than the 
bodied sounds of the Tramp's slumber. She 
hovered, wrenched by desire and by fear. 
The Tramp slept on. 

THE rats were at the body of the chicken, 
edging it this way and that, and pre- 
sently it thumped to the flpor, but 
the man did not awaken. Now that the 
chicken lay full in the firelight it was at 
once more tempting and more approach- 
able. The child cautiously pushed back 
the sacks and crept out, her senses intent 
upon the Tramp's self-advertised slumber, 
her desires fixed upon the food. She had 
seized the prize, had risen to her feet 
for flight, when something, perhaps that 
subtle aura which we all carry, . and 
which, though imperceptible to the duller 
waking, has yet power to sound response 
from the strung senses of sleep — as the 
insensible wind will thrum an aeolian harp — 
disturbed the man. The snoring stopped 
suddenly. The Tramp sat up, his eyes 
targets of amazement, his lower lip dropping. 
The child, paralyzed with fear, stood motion- 
less ; in the streets she would have fled, but 
here under this influence she was a changed 
creature. So the Tramp and the girl remained 
for some while, each petrifying the other with 
the strange hypnotism of a horror-burnt gaze. 
The Tramp first recovered speech and action. 
He pushed a hand before him, motioning 

" Take it," he said, in a thick voice. 
tl Take it, if yer wants it." 

The child, receiving, instead of blows, a 
gift, was yet speechless. She did not under- 

" l nev ^ig>tfSlft8ft of y° u '" went oa 



Haunted Houses 

the Tramp, becoming almost plaintive, as 
plaintive as his weather-worn voice would 
permit, " I never did, really, I never larfed 
at you even — not like others. If yer wants 
the chicken, take it and welcome." 

The child began to realize. 

" You — you means I can 'aye it ? " she said, 

" Welcome to it, welcome ! " cried the 
Tramp, wagging his -head in vigorous asser- 

"An* — an* yer won't boot me, nor 
nuthink ? " 

" Now I arsts yer," expostulated the 
vagabond, spreading his tattered arms, " 'ow 
could 1 ? Even if I wanted ter, which I 
never did — no never. Not even once, 
s'w'elp me ! " 

Without more words the child set her teeth 
into the deep breast of the fowl greedily. 
The Tramp rubbed his eyes, he looked again 
and rubbed once more. 

"I'm dreamin', that's wot I am," he 
muttered ; " 'oo ever 'eard — bloomin' fairies 
eatin' chicken ? It's a dream, that's wot." 

The child continued to devour the meat. 

"I'll wake up soon," said the Tramp, 
with hesitation, and then, doubtful whether 
it were dream or no : " Yer couldn't — if it's 
no offence, miss — yer couldn't git me a bit o' 
terbaccer,, p'r'aps ? No offence, of course, 
but for the chicken, y' know." 

The child stared at him. 

" No offence, no offence," said the Tramp, 
hurriedly, " only bein' a vegetable like — I 

" But," asked the girl, " were'd I get 
t* baccy from ? " 

'* I thought," said the Tramp again, and 
waved his hands, " you know — magic a 
bit " 

A sketched fear came into the girl's eyes. 

" Is he dotty ? " she thought, but aloud : 
11 What made yer think I was a Sammon and 
Gluckstein ? " 

" Sammon and Gluck ! " said the Tramp, 
bewildered. " It's a dream, ole man, it's a 
dream." He furtively pinched himself hard. 
" 'Ow," he added, as the pinch took effect. 

" Look 'ere," said the child, her natural 
urban impudence encouraged by the man's 
strange deference, " 'oo are yer gittin' at ? " 

" Gittin' at?" said the man. " I wasn't. 
Only bein' a fairy like, I thort — — " 

" Fairy ? " said the child, " wot they 'as in 
pantermines ? 'E's dotty all right," she 
thought again to herself, and glanced quickly 
behind her to see if the path of escape were 
clear/ . , - .' 

" Pantermines I " cried the Tramp; " but 
ain't yer a fairy, with yer daisy crown an' 
all ? " 

" Fairy ? " said the girl again ; " oh, 
cheese it ! " 

by Google 

" Then," muttered the Tramp, sinking 
into himself, as it were, " it is haunted. A 

ghost— though ghosts eatin' chicken " 

His hands quivered. 

" Ghost," retorted the girl. " Ghost nix. 
I'm lorst, that's wot. Lorst, d' yer cop it ? " 

" Lorst ! " ejaculated the Tramp ; " you 
ain't no sperrit ? " 

" Wot you've been drinkm' ! " said the 
girl. " Do I look like it ? " 

" Well, I'm — — " said the Tramp, recover- 
ing his sang-froid, now that he had humanity 
and no mysterious exhalation of nature to 
deal with. Then, brusquely realizing too that 
this mere humanity was absorbing his break- 
fast, " 'Ere, 'and over that chicken." 

41 But you give it me," said the girl. 

" I thort " answered the Tramp, but 

waved aside even the memory of the con- 
tretemps. " Lucky I don't give you an 
'iding into the bargain. 'And it hover. 'Ad 
enuff you 'as, anyway." 

Reluctantly the child surrendered the 
skeleton of the chicken, for though, indeed, 
she had stayed the immediate qualms of her 
hunger, greed remained. The Tramp, rising, 
placed the carcass again out of reach on the 
high shelf of the chimney, and, ere he sat 
down, flung a great armful of wood upon the 
diminishing fire. 

. " Stay in the warmth if yer likes," he said, 
kindly enough. 

For some while there was silence, botli man 
and child staring into the glow, while behind 
them on the ceiling and the walls the shadows 
held saraband and tarantella. The influence 
of the deserted house from which the Tramp 
by his weariness and th e girl by her ignorance 
had been partially armoured, now reinforced 
by the ghostly contagion of personalities, 
laid hands on them, the accumulations of 
silence over-pressed them, driving out all 
thought of sleep, insinuating a thin suspicion. 

At last :— 

" Wasn't you afraid ? " said the Tramp. 

" Of you ? " asked the girl. " Go on." 

" Of me — no. Of this." He waved his 
arm backwards. 

" Of this ? " asked the girl. " Why ? 
Were you ? " 

" It was here or nowhere," said the Tramp, 
" here or nowhere. And it's cold on the 
Downs. Besides, it's the yokels say it, and 
I don't believe them, not much — and one 
can always get out, if the door's open." 
He squinted back to reassure himself. 

" But," asked the slum child, " wot's 
there to be frightened of ? " 

" Ah," said the Tramp, drawing slowly 
from himself with the air of one who had 
pondered much, " wot's there ever to be 
frightened of ? 'Ceptin' perhaps bein' 
chased by a dorg and bein' bit. Police, 
they don't count ; quod, that don't count ; 
Original from 


Jan Gordon 


ipy CT^" £rim " » n|1| = j jtnintiiii[:FiH:i;iiGi jj mi: liir-i iit ■ iii" iheij 1111 i!ir-; im » iniinntrnnHminnni ir~ " i • ! ! ! : -: "i : -rain iiiiiriiiiiimiiitiiiiiiiiiiiifijifiiii'iiirjf 

The Tramp set the flute to his lips. He played well # The flames danced with the music, 

aad the shadow* danced with the flames.** 
(~* f\*"Ui 1 b Original from 


8 4 

Haunted Houses 

an' w'en yer die — well, you've got to some- 
time, so that don't count — much. Even 
dorgs — well, dorgs now — seems to me, speak- 
ing honest now, even dorgs 'as their uses. 
Teaches you you was alive, as it were, and — 
and how much man you are ; you never 
know what a man really is till you've 
scampered with a dorg snappin' be'ind — not 
really known. No mistake. Yet — one is 
frightened — orften. Y' see, I've thort oi these 
things sometimes/' 

"I dessay," said the child, * but wot's 
here ? " She imitated his backward gesture. 

" Here ? " went on the Tramp, looking 
round. "* Oh, well, here. If you don't 
know — why, what's the use ? Besides, it's 
only yokels' talk. Who believes farmers ? 
Still — to-morrow, perhaps, no use to-night — 
no use to-night/' 

" But what is it ? " persisted the child. 

" Oh, well," said the Tramp, looking 
suddenly again at the open door, ' it is a 
shivery sort of place, now, isn't it ? Doesn't 
look healthy. Eh ? But, Lord ! If 1 
believed all them 'Odges say. If I wanted 
to believe 'em/' 

He paused to ponder. 

" You're town. I can see that," he con- 
tinued. *' So was 1 wonce. You don't 
know the country — I do. 1 bet there ain't 
one square* yard in Hengland where my feet 
ain't patted the clod. Town now, it's all 
the same, it's all square and straight and hard 
underfoot, and bobbies at the crossings, and* 
lights — all made out and looked after, all 
hard and cornery ; but the country's 
different. It's soft, that's wot it is, soft. 
You can't get its shape. You may think 
things, but you never know. They say 
there's fairies, an' ghosts, an' spernts. But 
you never know, not the real trooth ; any- 
way, they never did me no 'arm. I'd sooner 
trust them than farmers, anyhow. Some- 
times evenings, going down the hedgerows, 
I've thought things into them hedges, 
goblins hanging like bats in the branches and 
little thin foggy chaps thridding through the 
grass, and they always was laughing. But 
night-time down a havenue, specially poplars, 
you'd think great fellows chasing you, and 
footsteps behind, but nothing ever happens. 
And the wind in the branches sighs like there 
were folks shut up, but there isn't, really, 
you know — you think that way; that's the 

" And them butterflies blowin' about like 
bits of coloured paper," interrupted the child, 
" but artful." 

" There's nothing in towns," went on the 
man, pursuing his own train of thought — 
11 doors shut like mouths that can't speak, 
and windows like dead eyes. But out here 
in the country — why, it's different. There's 
always something, something round the 

by t^ 



corner. Something great, queer maybe, but 
big anyhow, shadowy, hanging half up in the 
air like a low cloud. But that never happens 
neither ; you go round the corner and it isn't 
there. It's round the next — always round 
the next. But that makes no difference. 
Round the next corner you're a giant, ten 
feet high, six leet to a step — but you aren't, 
you know, but round the corner. Often 
I've wondered and wondered — what it was. 
Always this — wotever it is — you never catch 
up. Sometimes I thought it was one thing, 
sometimes I thought it was something else. 
Then I thought it was * world without end/ 
Amen corner — the big bust-up. You never 
know what that is, not really. You don't 
feel that in towns — no. There's too much — 
too much to-morrow in towns. To-day 
doesn't count. And that's in houses too. 
Pull these houses down they do in towns, 
to make new red brick boxes; but here in 
country houses you don't know what's round 
the corner, or in the next room." He peered 
round at the mazy pattern of shadow behind 
him. " And then they think things. Be- 
cause it's a mournful, lonely house, damp, 
and then things that has happened may 
be " 

"• What things ? " said the child. 

,J Oh," replied the man, " just things. So 
they say." 

To change the subject, he fumbled in his 
pocket and pulled out a small flute. 

" Wots the good of talkin' ? " he said. 
" Put some more sticks on the fire, kid, an' 
we'll 'ave a toon/* 

HE set the instrument to his lips. He 
played well. The liquid notes rippled 
from the wooden pipe, sometimes as 
falling drops of some pure translucent fluid, 
sometimes seeming to swell and run in 
iridescent chain, as go the quivering bubbles 
on the rapids of some mountain tarn, 
and to dance gambolling away through 
the open door into the darkness. In the 
firelight the Tramp's face, with its. puckered 
lips and its weather-beaten nose, was 
like the carving of some old Satyr ; on 
the stops his mahogany fingers flickered, 
nimble despite their graved and swollen 
knuckles. The flames danced with the music, 
and the shadows danced with the flames. 
The Tramp passed from air to air without a 
rest ; queer airs they were, too, the girl 
thought, some didn't seem to have tune at all. 
His fingers flew faster, trills and cascades of 
notes flitted into the melody, as though birds 
were flinging him interruptions. In the 
firelight the sweat glistened on the Tramp's 

Suddenly — silence. The music stopped in 
the middle of a cadenza. The Tramp's 
fingers hung motionless in the air, his eyes 


Jan Gordon 


swung in his sockets, their whites gleamed 
out, marking his face with an expression of 
fear. The silence profound was broken only 
by the Tramps deep-chested breathing. 
Slowly he straightened his eyes till he looked 
at the girl. 

" What was that ? " he said. 

" What ? " 

" Didn't you hear nothing ? " 

* No," she said, " only you.*' 

" Ah," said the Tramp, and, after a pause, 
M that's the way you think things." 

And he set the flute once more to his lips. 
But the inspiration was gone from him. He 
played but a few bars and then, dropping the 
flute, stared into the fire. 

" Talking s better," he satd ; * music 
twists you up that." 

" Don't you play tunes ? " asked the girl. 

" You wait till you've heard them ottener," 
replied the Tramp ; " them's the finest tunes, 
that you can't pick out first go oft. Them 
tumpty- turns — them four-cornered tunes — 
don't mean nothing. Drugs your mind to 
sleep they do ; but you wait, kid, till you 
know them tunes, and till I play them to you 
out there on the highlands in the wind up to 
Yorkshire, or deep in a green Dorset wood. 
Them's the tunes of the country, not town 
tunes, no. Them town tunes come round and 
round, over and over again, like they live 
their lives. Same for everybody, rich or 
poor, no difference — living in boxes, dying in 
boxes, buried in boxes. I know ; I've lived it 
— rich or poor don't make no difference, 
they wants the same things, in the same way ; 
they gets the same things, in the same way. 
The poor woman's joy in her new baby-cart 
is the same as the rich one's in her moty-car ; 
jest the same an' lasts jest as long, till 
ter-morrer — or jest so long as they can crow 
over somebody else about it. They don't 
live : they works, or they fools so's to 
forget they're livin', afraid to live, that's wot 
it is t or livin' to work an' workin' to live. 
Livin' isn't workin', or killin' things, or throw- 
in' balls about; livin' is seein' things, an' 
smellin' things, an* tastin' things, an' — an' 
makin' things into tunes, and that-like — that's 
livin'. Livin' is running away from dorgs, an' 
poachin' rabbits — an' you do live with a dorg 
behind, vivid, I can tell yer. But it's no good 
saying these things to you, you can't under- 
stand. You're a woman, an' don't you forget 
it's women make the prisons men live in." 

The child did not answer because, as the 
Tramp had said, she did not understand ; she 
still thought he was a mild lunatic. 

44 A YE, I know women," said the Tramp, 

f^ shaking his head at the fire ; " silken 

women, too, I've known, and all 

alike, 'cept one I remember. Only she 

was too much. It's all very well livin', 

Digitized by Lt«- 

but you don't want to splash it about. 
Camping out they was, three men and 
three women, in two tents. Younger, too, 
1 was in them days, good-looking in a 
way. I used ter play to 'em, an' they 
painted me. Artists they was. One of 
them ' gals had deep eyes, that you looked 
down into, and risked to get drowned in. 
Looked into em 1 did and played her tunes. 
I've forgotten them tunes now — they didn't 
count, just madness tunes they was. She'd 
a come if 1 d played longer to her, but I 
wouldn t have her. 1 never wanted that 
sort — not tor long, that is. They'll take the 
heart from you, aye and split it open for 
red to paint their lips with. So 1 played 
to her and with her, but even she couldn't 
live like a real man, she had to live like a 

He sat silent for a while, fingering his flute. 
Then, putting it to his lips, essayed a few 
tentative notes, but broke off. 

" No, no," he said, I cant — nor want 

But he set the pipe again to his mouth, and 
played the haunting wood-wind ana. from 
*• The Magic Flute/ When he had finished, 
and the ghost of the final note had fled into 
the dark garden, the girl saw that a tear had 
run from his eye and glistened on his cheek. 

" Ah," he said, flicking the tear away with, 
a crooked finger. " She wouldn't come. 

" Them days,'* he went on, * I lived in 
that town, played orchestra, 1 did. You 
know what that is ? "" 

" Yes," said the girl, " that black hole 
where the music comes from, with the red 

* Near enough," said the man ; " that's 
when i learnt that tune. That's what sent 
me into the country, to a man's life. Played 
that night after night, I did ; it was my part, 
solo. And it seemed so silly, sitting there, 
playing that tune in that stuffy, cramped 
hole. Blowing it into the back of the chap 
in front of you, when it sang of open fields 
and woods and breaking buds. And all 
you could look at was the red neck of a fat 
clarionet. Made me think, that tune did. 
Me, what had never thort before. And at 
night-time I'd walk back from the theatre, 
and all them upstairs windows alight, and that 
was life, lived in a box up against the sky. 
Happiness in a box for an hour at night ; 
and then in the end — another box, only a 
smaller one. But I never saw clear till one 
time, when the theatre was shut, some of us 
got a job for a concert in the country, and the 
cart broke down and we had to walk. Most 
of the chaps were cursing at it, which I 
didn't like, so I went on quick and got ahead, 
and lorst myself proper. Somehow I didn't 
mind then, it was August and warm. There 

was scents ip the hodges and flowers in the 

■:-■ 1 1 y 1 1 1 □ 1 1 r^i 1 1 



Haunted Houses 



woods* It was. the first time I'd been 
properly alone in the country, an* I just let 
the concert party go, and enjoyed myself. 
And there were birds in the branches, so I 
just out with my flute and played against 
them, and a fine concert we had. I thought 
I was alone, but when I 
finished there was a clear 
clapping and a girl stand- 
ing near by, 

' ' Play some more,' she 
said, ' play some more/" 
The Tramp put the 
pipe again to his lips and 
played the air of " The 
Magic Flute/' 

" Played her that, I 
did/' he said, " But she 
wanted to shut me 
up in a box/' he 
went on, almost 
angrily, as if re- 
buking himself, 
,H wanted to shut 
me up. A week I 

hung about there spending more than I could 
afford, and I found a new souL Saw her and 
freedom together, in one picture as it were* 
Her in front, and Nature behind. Laughed 
at me, they did, when I got back, but I could 
afford to let 'em laugh, 1 had learned things. 
Yes, I had. Clerk in a shop she was, and 
not very far from rnc, so we came back 
together. And then Sundays we'd go out, 
to Hampstead or Hendon, or even farther 
sometimes, only that cost a lot, And I'd 
talk to her about the country and about 
freedom, and she agreed with her lips and 
with her eyes. But never in her heart, 
because she didn't — couldn 't — understand . 
When spring came, I had made up my mind* 
I would take her by the hand, and together 
we would walk away, into the open country. 
I knew it could be done. 

J Then I found she hadn't understood. 
All that talk with her was slop — just raving 
about the country because others did, and 
it was a nice place to holiday in. At last, 
because 1 loved her, because she loved me, 
too, and because she still didn't understand, 
I persuaded her. Got married we did t and 
in the fine summer away we went, me with a 
pack on my back and me little flute in the 
pocket. We took the train out of London 
till it was deep in the country by Epping, 
and then off we set. 1 was like a young boy 

'Pulling out his pipe* the Tramp began to play, and stilt playing dis^^p^a^ed from view. Suddenly 


Jan Gordon 

8 7 

just set free from school, an 1 like some 
prisoner escaped. Nothing, I thought, could 
touch our happiness. Couldn't it ? Pah ! " 
He paused- 

"Tight boots 1" he ejaculated, and spat 
into the waning fire. " Before we'd done 
twelve miles/' he %vent on, plaintively, 
" would you believe it ? Twelve miles only, 
and all my happiness was running out of her 
eyes in tears. Proud she was of her small 
feet, prouder of having feet than she was of 
being alive. Dragged me back, them feet 
did, back into the red brick boxes, where 
I couldn't make up tunes , because they 
would come all square, each corner the 
same. Six months I stayed in them brick 
prisons, and me with my soul dancing out 
on the free lanes. Six months and our 
tempers gone, mc dissatisfied, she knowing it, 
and her cursed boots, the boots that had 
kicked my happiness into oblivion, lying 
about everywhere. What I'd a done if a 
bloomin' uncle hadn't a died and left her 
some money, I dun no. Anyway, leave it he 
did, enough to get along on comfortable as 
she was used to. So I 'opped it" 

" Did a bunk ! " said the child, eagerly, 
"Bunk it was," answered the Tramp. 
* Kissed J er after breakfast I did, walked out 
of the J ouse, and never back. All the way 
down the street things was calling me to go 
back; I thought what we 'ad been, and if 
there might appear a kid— which there 
didn't — and how 1 might persuade her to 
come now — but I knew it was no go, The 
money stood in the way. She would want 

things* You can J t be free if you want 
things ; the only way you can get all you 
want is by wanting nothing, that's the way of 
'appiness. But so soon as you want things, 
you may as well live in brick -boxes. I 
wanted 'er p and there I was in a brick box. 
I wanted the country and my tunes ; that 
kind of want's different. It's all right, only 
I wanted 'er too. I couldn't 'ave gone back, 
not for 'er 'appiness nor for mine* It was a 
dreadful day, I remember, but when I got 
away from London I went shouting through 
the rain. I slept all night soaked in a 'ay- 
stack, wanting mt bad now I was away from 
J er, but I never went back. I've wanted 'er, 
nigh on twenty-seven years, I want 'er still, 
but I don't ^go back, Wot's the good ? 
I've known other women since, but never the 
same, and never it made any difference. 
Sometimes I've tried to comfort myself by 
thin kin* that what I wanted hadn't never 
lived at all — never was. But that didn't 
make any difference, for whether it was or 
whether it wasn't, 1 wanted it jest the same. 
And yet perhaps I've been happier because 
I've never really been certain, as it were. 
Happier than she was maybe, because she 
couldn't think things and be glad about them, 
though about real things she was merrier 
than me. So I've made up tunes about her, 
but they were never her like this one." 

He played the little melody once again. 
The dawn was coming up, the deserted garden 
outside was greying against its dark wall and 
trees, the salient objects in the room took on 
blue shapes. The fire had by now sunk into 


the child came to a decision. 

Diqilized by v-i 

Crying out that he should wait fo:r her, ahe ran after him." 



Haunted Houses 

a heap of dull, reverberant ash. The Tramp 
shivered slightly and thrust the pipe into a 
pocket of one of his several coats. 

" 'Ere," he said, reaching up for the 
carcass. " Breakfass, kiddo," and he rent 
it in two pieces with resolute fingers. As he 
was gnawing, he glanced round the moulder- 
ing kitchen. 

" Haunted," he mumbled ; " they said it 
was haunted. All sorts of tales." 

" Tell us ?" said the child. 

" Not worth it," answered the Tramp. 
" If you live in brick boxes, you pay for it, 
that's all. Haunted — all houses are haunted, 
haunted by what man could a been and 
wasn't, by dreams left to rot — we're all 
haunted — every bloomin' one.'i And he fell 
again on the chicken bones. 

When he stood once more outside the rusty 
gate, he looked down at the child. 

" Where's your home ? " he asked. 

" Brixton," she answered. 

" What's father doin' ? " 

" 'Aven't one," she said. 

" Mother ? " 

" Popped orf . Arntie looks after me, when 
she ain't jugged." 

" Look 'ere," said the Tramp, " you 
'aven't a gay life, I bet, or your face wouldn't 

'ave growed that peaked way. Come along 
to me. Try this one, an' I'll teach you to 

" I — I dunno," said the child, shrinking 
from his hand. The country stretched so 
broadly on every side — so huge* The Tramp 
still looked down on her — there was pity in 
his eyes. 

" Well," he said, " please yourself. That's 
your way to the viUage," and he pointed with 
his ashen stick, " straight across there — and 
to Brixton." 

He turned round the wall and set off across 
the grass. As he went the new-risen sun 
flung his shadow, like a long pennant waving 
gently, over the hummocks and undulations 
of the Down. The girl stood now looking 
after him, now gazing in the direction he had 
indicated. She saw him set himself against 
the slope, walking steadily. Just as he 
topped the lip of the cup, he waved a good- 
bye, and then pulling out his pipe he began 
to play, and still playing disappeared from 

The notes of " The Magic Flute " came 
faintly on the clear sweet morning air. 

Suddenly the child came to a decision. 

Crying out that he should wait for her, 
she ran after him. 

PERPLEXITIES. By henry e. dudeney. 

This is a Httle exercise in the art of punctuation. A 
man wrote this sentence just as it appears, without 
any stops whatever : ** If is is not island is not, is is, 
what is it is not is/and what is it is is not if is 
not is is." It will be seen that without punctuation 
the sentence is meaningless. Can 
you make sense of it ? 

A lady correspondent enclosed 
this queer monogram in a letter 
to me and I put it aside for 
consideration. When I recently 
came across it and interpreted its 
meaning I smiled and asked my- 
self whether by any chance the 
accompanying letter, which was 
destroyed, was sent to me on St. 
Valentine's Day. I wonder ! The 
reader will understand why when 
he has succeeded in discovering the 
monogram's meaning. 

Captain Wisehbad had a careless clerk who, in 
typing correspondence, had a bad habit of repeating a 
word or words. This so annoyed him that he told 
the clerk that the very next time he made an error of 
this kind he would be discharged. The next day the 

clerk brought him a letter to sign concerning the 
wrongful dismissal of a certain man and his subsequent 
rehabilitation. The concluding sentence of the type- 
written document ran : " As he reinstated as he re- 
instated the man in question, I submit that the matter 
may be allowed to drop." 

Pointing to the duplication of the first three words, 
the Captain informed his clerk that he would have to 
go. " I admit, sir." said the clerk, " that I have made 
a slight error, but I protest that there is not one single 
letter too many or too few in what I have written." 
44 Very well," said the Captain, " if you can prove that 
to me you may remain." How did the clerk prove his 
case and how should the amended sentence read ? 

by t^ 




. This is a rather easy 
cutting - out puzzle. Yet 
it may perplex the reader 
for some minutes. You 
are simply asked to cut 
the Spade into three 
pieces that will fit together 
and form a Heart. Of 
course, no part of the 
material may be wasted, 
or it would be absurd, 
since it would be neces- 
sary merely to cut away 
the stem of the Spade. 

Original from 



Some Suggestions by Our Artists, 


Drawn by Robin. 





awn by Pay. 

Original from 



Improving Our Sports 


Drawn by Strube. 



Drawn by W. H # Cobb, 


Improving Our Sports 



Drawn by W. Heath Robinson. 



Improving Our Sports 





Drawn by Ridtfewell* 

Drawn by George Morrow, 

by v^ooyr 


Driginal from 









When you 
have read 
this copy 
pass it on 
to a friend. 





Stc, &bc* 




i KiBlf 








August, 1920 

by Google 

Original from 


fSti pa$i ior*yl 

by Google 

Original from 






A ND why, Major 
/\ Seymour, do 

j[ % they call you 
•Old Point 
of Detail'?/' ; 

The tall, spare man, with a face tanned 
by' years; in the tropics, turned at the 
que&1io»)->tKi glanced at the girl beside 
him. AJL^tfce time when most boys are 
still -^v^h&cir, -force of circumstances had 
sentthim. leu: afield into strange corners of 
th£ ^aarth-r-^i wanderer, and picker-up of odd 
jo^, ' Jfe iiad done police work in India; 
he "had' b$en -on*--a rubber plantation in 
Sumatra;- 'Tile' Amazon knew him and so 
did th£ -Yukon, Wl^le his knowledge of the 
customs o£ : ti i il> Darkest Africa-— the 
very- names of - which were unknown to 
most people-was greater than the average 
Londoner -6&s4 of his native city. In fact, 
before the ^ar it would have been difficult' 
to §iiTfoT/ an * evening in one of those clubs 
whfch' spring into being in all corners 
where Englishmen guard their far-flung 
inheritance without Bob Seymour's name 
cropping up. 

Then had come the war, and in the van 
of the great army from the mountains and 
the swamps which trekked home as the 
first shot rang out, he came. As his reward 
he got a D.S;CX and one leg permanently 
shortened by two inches.^ He also met a 
girl^the girl who had just asked him the 

He'd met her just a year after the Ar- 
mistice,- when he * was wondering whether 
there was any place for a cripple in the lands 
that tie knew. V And from that day everything 
had changed; * Even to himself tie wouldn't ' 
admit it ; the thought of asking such a 
glorious bit of loveliness to tie herself to 
a useless has-been like himself was out of 
the question. But he let the days slip 
by, content to meet her occasionally at 




Vol. U.-7. 

her cm 


•pyright, 1920, l> 

dinner — to see her, in 
the distance, at a 
theatre. And now, 
for the first time, he 
found himself stay- 
ing under the same 
roof. When he'd arrived the preceding 
day and had seen her in the hall, just 
for a moment his heart had stopped beat- 
ing, and then had given a great bound 
forward. She, of course, knew nothing of 
his feelings ; of thatt he felt sure. And 
she must never know ; of that be was 
determined. The whole thing was out of 
the question. 

Of course — naturally. And the only com- 
ment which a mere narrator of facts can 
offer on the state of affairs is to record the 
remark made by Ruth Braba^on to -a very 
dear friend of hers after Bob Seymour 
had limped upstairs to his room. 

" That's the man, Delia," she said, with 
a little smile. ** And if he doesn't say some- 
thing soon, I shall have to." ' 

"He looks a perfect darling," remarked 
the other. 

" He is," sighed Ruth. " But he won't 
give me the chance of telling him so. He 
thinks he's a cripple." 

With which brief insight into things as 
they really were, we can now return to 
things as Bob Seymour thought they were. 
Beside, him, on a sofa in the hall, sat the 
girl wtio had kept him' in England through 
long months, and she had just asked him a 

" The. Old, I trust, is a term of endear- 
ment," he answered, with a smile, " and 
not a brutal reflection on my tale of years. 
The Point of Detail refers to a favourite 
saying of mine with which my reprobate 
subalterns — of whom your brother was 
quite the worst — used to mock me." 

" Bill is the limit," murmured the girl. 
" What was* the saying ? " 

yH ' c llttelTy OF MICHIGAN 


The Green Death 

" I used to preach the importance of 
Points of Detail to 'em," he grinned. " One 
is nothing ; two are a coincidence ; three 
are a moral certainty. And they're very 
easy to see if you have eyes to see them 

'* I suppose they are, Old Point of Detail," 
she replied, softly. 

Was it his imagination or did she lay a 
faint stress on the Old ? 

" It was certainly a term of endearment," 
she continued, deliberately, " if what Bill 
says is to be believed." 

" Oh ! Bill's an ass," said Seymour, 

" Thank you," she remarked, and he 
noticed her eyes were twinkling. " I've 
always been told I'm exactly like Bill. 
I know we always used to like the same 
things when we were children." She rose 
and crossed the hall. " Time to dress for 
dinner, I think." 

In the dim light he could not see her face 
clearly ; he only knew his heart was 

thumping wildly. Did she mean ? And 

then from half-way up the stairs she spoke 

" Two are certainly a coincidence," she 
agreed, thoughtfully. " But the third would 
have to be pretty conclusive before you 
could take it as a certainty." 


TELL, Major Seymour, hitting 'em in 
the beak ? " The Celebrated Actor 
mixed himself a cocktail with that 
delicate grace for which he was famed on 
both sides of the Atlantic. 

" So — so, Mr. Trayne," returned the 
other. " All the easy ones came my way." 

The house-party were in the hall waiting 
for dinner to be announced, but the one 
member of it who mattered to Bob Seymour 
had not yet appeared. 

" Rot, my dear fellow," said his host, 
who had come up in time to hear his last 
remark. "Your shooting was magnificent 
— absolutely magnificent. You had four 
birds in the air once from your guns." 

" Personally," murmured the Celebrated 
Actor, " it fails to appeal to me. Apart 
from my intense fright at letting off lethal 
weapons, I have never yet succeeded in 
hitting anything except a keeper or — more 
frequently — a guest. I abhor violence — 
except at rehearsals." He broke off as a 
heavy, bull-necked man came slowly down 
the stairs. " And who is the latest addition 
to our number, Sir Robert ? " 

" A man who did me a good turn a few 
weeks ago," said the owner of the house, 
shortly. " Name of Denton. Arrived half 
an hour ago." 

He moved away to introduce the new- 

Digitized by GOOgle 

comer, and the Actor turned to Bob 

" One wonders," he remarked, " whether 
it would be indiscreet to offer Mr. Denton 
a part in my new play. Nothing much to 
say. He merely drinks and eats. In effect, 
a publican of unprepossessing aspect. One 
wonders — so suitable." He placed his empty 
glass on the table and drifted charmingly 
away towards his hostess, leaving Bob 
Seymour smiling gently. Undoubtedly a 
most suitable part for Mr. Denton. 

And then, quite suddenly, the smile 
died away. Bill Brabazon, who was stand- 
ing near the fireplace, had turned round 
and come face to face with the new-comer. 
For a moment or two they stared at 
one another — a deadly loathing on their 
faces ; then with ostentatious rudeness 
Denton turned his back and walked away. 

" My God ! Bob," muttered Bill, coming 
up to Seymour. " How on earth did that 
swine-emperor get here ? " 

His jaw was grim and set, his eyes gleaming 
with rage ; and the hand that poured out 
the cocktail shook a little. 

" What's the matter, Bill ? " said Seymour, 
quietly. " For Heaven's sake, don't make 
a scene, old man ! " 

" Matter ! " choked Bill Brabazori. " Mat- 
ter ! Why " 

But any further revelations were checked 
by the announcement of dinner, and the 
party went in informally. To his delight, 
Bob Seymour found himself next to Ruth, 
and the little scene he had just witnessed 
passed from his mind. It* was not until 
they were half-way through the meal that 
it was recalled to him by Ruth herself. 

" Who is that dreadful-looking man talking 
to Delia Morrison ? " she whispered. 

" Denton is his name," replied Seymour, 
and every vestige of colour left her face. 

" Denton," she muttered. " Good heavens ! 
it can't be the same." She glanced round 
the table till she found her brother, who was 
answering the animated remarks of his 
partner with morose monosyllables. " Has 
Bill " 

" Bill has," returned Seymour, grimly. 
" And he's whispered to me on the subject. 
What's the trouble ? " 

" They had the most fearful row — over a 
girl," she explained, a little breathlessly. 
" Two or three months ago. I know they 
had a fight, and Bill got a black eye. But 
he broke that other brute's jaw." 

" Holy smoke ! " muttered Seymour. " The 
meeting strikes the casual observer as being, 
to put it mildly, embarrassing. Do you know 
how the row started ? " 

" Only vaguely," she answered. " That 
man Denton got some girl into trouble, and 
then left her in the lurch — refused to help 


H. C. McNeile . (" Sapper ") 


her at all. A poor girl — the daughter of 
someone who had been in Bills platoon. 
And he came to Bill." 

* 1 see," said Seymour, grimly. " I see. 
Bill would." 

" Of course he would ! " she cried. " Why, 
of course. Just the same as you would." 

"I suppose that isn't pretty conclusive ? " 
he said, with a grin. "As a third point, I 

But Ruth Brabazon had turned to the 
Celebrated Actor on her other side. He had 
already said, "My dear young lady ".five 
times without avail, and he was Very 

NEGLECTED for the moment by both his 
neighbours. Bob proceeded to study the 
gentleman whose sudden arrival seemed 
so inopportune. He was a coarse-looking 
specimen, and already his face was flushed 
with the amount of wine he had drunk. 
Every now and then his eyes sought Bill 
Brabazon vindictively, and Seymour frowned 
as he saw it. Denton belonged to a type he 
had met before, and it struck him there was 
every promise of trouble before the evening 
was out. When men of Denton's calibre 
get into the condition of " drink-taken," 
such trifles as the presence of other guests 
in the house do not deter them from being 
offensive. And Bill Brabazon, though far 
too well-bred to seek a quarrel in such 
surroundings, was also far too hot-tempered 
to take any deliberate insult lying down. 

Suddenly a coarse, overloud laugh from 
Denton sounded above the general con- 
versation, and Ruth Brabazon looked round 

" Ugh ! what a horrible man I " she whis- 
pered to Bob. " How I hate him ! " 

" I don't believe a word of it," he was 
saying, harshly. " Fraud by knaves for 
fools. For those manifestations that have 
been seen there is some material cause. 
Generally transparent trickery." He laughed 
again, sneeringly. 

For a second or two there was an uncom- 
fortable silence. It was not so much what the 
man liad said, as the vulgar, ill-bred manner 
in which he had said it, and Sir Robert 
hastily intervened to relieve the tension. 

" Ghosts ? " he remarked. " As impos- 
sible a subject to argue about as religion or 
politics. Incidentally, you know," he con- 
tinued, addressing the table at large, " there's 
a room in this house round which a novelist 
might weave quite a good ghost story." 

" Tell us, Sir Robert." A general chorus 
assailed him, and he smiled. 

"I'm not a novelist," he said, " though 
for what it's worth I'll tell you about it. 
The room is one in the new wing which I 
used to use as a smoking-room. It was 

by \j 


\he part built on to the house by my pre- 
decessor — a gentleman, from all accounts, 
of peculiar temperament. He had spent 
all his life travelling to obscure places of the 
world ; and 1 don't know if it was liver cr 
what, but his chief claim to notoriety when 
he did finally settle down appears to have 
been an intense hatred of his fellow-men. 
There are some very strange stories of the 
things which used to go on in this house, 
where he lived the life of an absolute recluse, 
with one old man to look after him. He 
died about forty years ago." 

Sir Robert paused and sipped his cham- 

" However, to continue. In this smoking- 
room in the new wing there is an inscription 
written in the most amazing jumble of letters 
by the window. It is written on the wall, 
and every form of hieroglyphic is used. 
You get a letter of Arabic, then one of 
Chinese, then an ordinary English one, and 
perhaps a German. Well, to cut a long 
story short, I took the trouble one day to 
copy it out, and replaced the foreign letters — 
there are one or two Greek letters as well — 
by their corresponding English ones. I had 
to get somebody else to help me over the 
Chinese and Arabic, but the result was, at 
any rate, sense. It proved to be a little 
jingling rhyme, and it ran as follows : — 

When 'tis hot, shun this spot. 

When 'tis rain, come again. 

When tis day, all serene. 

When 'tis night, death is green." 

Sir Robert glanced round the table with a 

" There was no doubt who had written 
this bit of doggerel, as the wing was actually 
built by my predecessor — and I certainly 
didn't. That's a pretty good foundation to 
build a ghost story on, isn't it ? " 

" But have you ever seen anything ? " 
inquired one of the guests. 

" Not a thing," laughed his host. " But " 
— he paused mysteriously — " I've smelt some- 
thing. And that's the reason why I don't 
use the room any more. 

" It was a very hot night — hotter even 
than this evening. There was thunder about 
— incidentally, I shouldn't be surprised if 
we had a storm before to-morrow — and 
I was sitting in the room after dinner, 
reading the paper. All of a sudden I became 
aware of a strange and most unpleasant 
smell : a sort of fetid, musty, rank smell, 
like you get sometimes when you open up 
an old vault. And at the same moment I 
noticed that the paper I held in my hand 
had gone a most peculiar green colour and 
I could no longer see the print clearly. It 
seemed to have got darker suddenly, and 
the smell became so bad that it made me 

feel quite faint. 

^ Original from 


9 8 

The Green Death 

" I walked over to the door and left the 
room, meaning to get a lamp. Then some- 
thing detained me, and I didn't go back for 
half an hour or so. When I did the smell 
was still there, though so faint that one 
could hardly notice it. Also the paper was 
quite white again." He laughed genially. 
" And that's the family ghost ; a poor thing, 
but our own. I'll have to get someone to 
take it in hand and bring it up-to-date." 

" But surely you don't think there is any 
connection between this smell and the 
inscription ? " cried Denton 
"I advance no theory at all." Sir Robert 
smiled genially. " All I can tell you is that 
there is an inscription, and that the colour 
green is mentioned in it. It seemed to me 
most certainly that my paper went green, 
tl ugh it is even more certain that I did not 
die. Also -there is at times in the room this 
rather unpleasant smell. I told you it was 
a poor thing in the ghost line." r- 

The conversation became general, and 
Ruth Brabazon turned to Bob, who was 
thoughtfully staring at his plate. 

" Why so preoccupied, Major Seymour ? " 

" A most interesting yarn," he remarked, 
coming out of his reverie. " Have a salted 
almond, before I finish the lot." 


TO have two hot-tempered men who 
loathe one another with a bitter 
loathing in a house- party is not con- 
ducive to its happiness. And. when ojie 
of them is an outsider of the first water, 
slightly under the influence of alcohol, the 
situation becomes even more precarious. 
For some time after dinner was, over 
Bill Brabazon avoided Denton as unos- 
tentatiously as he could, though it was 
plain to Bob Seymour and Ruth that he 
was finding it increasingly difficult to control 
his temper. By ten o'clock it was obvious, 
even to those guests who knew nothing about 
the men's previous relations, that there was 
trouble brewing ; and Sir Robert, who had 
been told the facts of the case by Bob, was 
at his wits' end. 

" If only I'd known," he said, irritably. 
"If only someone had told me. I know 
Denton is a sweep, but he did me a very good 
turn in the City the other day, and, without 
thinking, I asked him to come and shoot 
some time. And when he suggested coming 
now, I couldn't in all decency get out of it. 
I hope to Heaven there won't be a row." 

"If there's going to be, Sir Robert, you 
can't prevent it," said Seymour. " I'm sure 
Bill will do all he can to avoid one." 

" I know he will," answered his host. 
" But there are limits, and that man Denton 
is one of 'em. I wish I'd never met the 


A * Come arid have a game of billiards, any- 
way," said the other. " It's no use worrying If it comes, it comes." 

When they had been playing about twenty 
minutes, Ruth Brabazon and Delia Morrison 
joined them, the billiard-room being, as they 
affirmed, the coolest room in the house. 

€i We'll have rain soon," said Sir Robert, 
bringing off a fine losing hazard off the red. 
" That'll clear the air." 

And shortly afterwards his prophecy proved 
true. Heavy drops began to patter down on 
the glass skylight, and the girls heaved a 
sigh of relief. 

"Thank goodness," gasped Ruth. "I 

couldn't have stood— " She broke off 

abruptly and stared at J the door, which had 
just opened to admit her brother. " Bill," 
she cried, " what's the matter ? " 

Bob Seymour looked up quickly at her 
words ; then he rested his cue against the 
table. Something very obviously was the 
matter. Bill Brabazon, his tie undone, with 
a crumpled shirt, and a cut under his eye on 
the cheek-bone, came into the room and 
closed the door. - 

" I must apologize, Sir Robert," he said, 
quietly, "for what has happened. It's a 
rotten thing to have to admtf ih another 
man's house, but the fault w$s riot entirely 
mine. I've had the most damnable row with 
that fellow Denton— incidentally he. was half- 
drunk— and I've laid him out. Aji unpar- 
donable thing to do to one of your guests, 
but — well — I'm not particularly slow- tem- 
pered, and I couldn't help. |t. He went on 
and* on and on— asking for lyoqble : and 
finally he got it." ." * ' ? "' 

" Damnation ! " Sir Robert replaced Ijis 
cue in the Tack. "When did it happen. 
Bill? " . ; \_".. ; Y , .. 

" About half ^n hour ago. ;l!ve.been out- 
side since. Meaning to avoid him I went to 
the smoking-room in the new wing', and I 
found him there examining that inscription 
by the window. I couldn't get away — 
without running away. I suppose I ought 
to have." An uncomfortable silence settled 
on the room, which was broken at length by 
Sir Robert. 

" Where is the fellow now, Bill ? " 

" I haven't seen him — not since I socked 
him one on the jaw. I'm deucedly sorry 
about it," he continued, miserably, " and 
I feel the most awful sweep, but " 

He stopped suddenly as the door was 
flung open and the Celebrated Actor rushed 
in. The magnificent repose which usually 
stamped his features was gone : it was an 
agitated and frightened man who stood by 
the billiard table, pouring out his somewhat 
incoherent story. And as his meaning be- 
came clear Bill Brabazon grew white and 
leaned against the mantelpiece for support. 


H. C. McNeile ("Sapper") 

Bill Brabazon, hi* tic undone, with a crumpled shirt, and a cut under hi* eye, came into the 
room, * 1 must apologize, Sir Robert,* he said, quietly, * for what has happened. 1 * 

Dead — Denton dead ! Th;it was the salient 
fact that stood out from the Actor's disjointed 

1 To examine the inscription/' he was 
saying, " I went in to examine it — and 
there — by the window . . . " 

f- He can't be dead/' said Bill, harshly. 
M He's laid out; that's all/' 

by L^OOgle 

" Quick ! Which is the room ? " Bob 
Seymour's steady voice served to pull every- 
one together. " There's no good standing 
here talking- " 

In silence they crossed the hall, arid went 
along the passage to the new wing, 

" Here we are,V said Sir Robert^ ner- 
vously. +# This is the door/' j *v< 



The Green Death 

The room was in darkness and in the air 
there hiing a rank, fetid smell. The window 
was open, and outside the rain was lashing 
down with tropical violence. Bob Seymour 
fumbled in his pocket for a match ; then 
he turned up to the lamp and lit it. Just 
for a moment he stared at it in surprise, 
then Ruth, from the doorway, gave a little 
stifled scream. 

" Look," she whispered. '• By the 

window " 

A man was lying across the window- 
sill, with his legs inside the room and his 
head and shoulders outside. 

" Good heavens," muttered Sir Robert, 
touching the body with a shaking hand. 
" I suppose — I suppose — he is dead ? " 

But Seymour apparently failed to hear 
the remark. 

" Do you notice this extraordinary smell ?" 
he said, at length. 

" Damn the smell," said his host, irritably. 
" Give me a hand with this poor fellow." 

Seymour pulled himself together and 
stepped forward as the other bent down to 
take hold of the sagging legs. 

" Leave him alone, Sir Robert," he said, 
quickly. V You must leave the body till 
the police come. We'll just see that he's 
dead, and then " 

He picked up an electric torch from the 
table and leant out of the window. And 
after a while he straightened up again 
with a little shudder. 

It was not a pretty sight. In the light 
of the torch the face seemed almost black, 
and the two arms, limp and twisted, sprawled 
in the sodden earth of the flower-bed. The 
man was quite dead, and they both stepped 
back into the middle of the smoking-room 
with obvious relief. 

" Well," said Brabazon, " Is he ? " 

" Yes — he's dead," said Seymour, gravely. 

" But it's impossible," cried the boy, 
wildly. " Why, that blow I gave him 
couldn't have — have killed the man." 

" Nevertheless he's dead," said Seymour, 
staring at the motionless body, thought- 
fully. Then his eyes narrowed, and he 
bent once more over the dead man. Ruth, 
sobbing hysterically, was trying to comfort 
her brother, while the rest of the house- 
party had collected near the door, talking 
in low, agitated whispers. 

" Bob — Bob," cried Bill Brabazon, sud- 
denly. " I've just remembered. I couldn't 
have done it when I laid him out. I told 
you I was walking up and down the lawn. 
Well, the light from this room was streaming 
out, and I remember seeing his shadow in 
the middle of the window. He must have 
been standing up. The mark of the window- 
sash was clear* on the lawn." 

Seymour glanced at him thoughtfully. 

Digitized by OOOgle 

'But the light was out, Bill. How. do 
you account for that ? " 

" It wasn't," said the other, positively.! 
" Not then. It must have gone out later." 

" We'll have to send for the police, Sir 
Robert," said Seymour, laying a reassuring 
hand on the boy's arm. " Tell them every-; 
thing when they come." 

" I've got nothing to hide," said the. young- 
ster, hoarsely. " I swear to Heaven I didn't 
do that." 

" We'd better go," cried Sir Robert. 
"' Leave everything as it is. I'll ring the 
police up." 

With quick, nervous steps he left the 
room, followed by his guests, until only 
Seymour was left standing by the window 
with its dreadful occupant. For a full 
minute he stood there, while the rain still 
lashed down outside, sniffing as he had done 
when he first entered. And, at length, 
with a slight frown on his face, as if some 
elusive memory escaped him, he followed 
the others from the room, first turning out; 
the light and then locking the door. 


IT was half an hour before the police 
came, in the shape of Inspector Grayson 

and a constable. During that time the 
rain had stopped for a period of about 
twenty minutes ; only to come on again 
just before a ring announced their arrival* 

The house-party were moving aimlessly 
about in little scattered groups, obsessed 
• with the dreadful tragedy. In the billiard- 
room Ruth sat with her brother in a 
sort of stunned silence ; only Bob Sey- 
mour seemed unaffected by the general 
strain. Perhaps it was because in a life 
such as his death by violence was no new 
spectacle ; perhaps it was that there was 
something he could not understand. 

Who had blown the light out ? That 
was the crux. Blown — not turned. The 
Celebrated Actor was very positive that 
the light had not been on when he first 
entered the room. It might have been 
the wind, but there was no wind. A point 
of detail— one. And then the smell — that 
strange, fetid smell. It touched a chord 
of memory, but try as he would he could 
not place it. 

His mind started on another line. If 
the boy, in his rage, had struck the dead 
man a fatal blow, how had the body got 
into such a position ? It would have been 
lving on the floor. 

" " Weak heart," he argued. " Hot night 
— gasping for breath — rushed to window — 
collapsed. That's what they'd say." .■ 

He frowned thoughtfully ; on the face 
of it quite plausible. Not only plausible 
-quite possible. 


H. C. McNeile ("Sapper") 


14 A man was tying across the window-sill* with his legs inside the room and his head 

and shoulders outside." 

" Major Seymour I " Ruth's voice beside 
him made him look up. *' What can we 
do ? Poor old Bill's nearly off his head.* 1 

" There's nothing to do, Miss Brabazon 
— but tell the truth/' said Seymour, gravely. 
** What I mean is/' he explained, hurriedly, 
" you've got to impress on Bill the vital 
necessity of being absolutely frank with 
the police/' 

+l I know he didn't do it, Bob/' she cried, 
desperately. I know it/* 

Bob ! She'd called him Bob, And such 
is human nature that for a moment the 
dead man was forgotten. 

41 So do I, Ruth/' he whispered, impul- 
sively. " So do I/ 1 

41 And you'll prove it ? " she cried. 

41 111 prove it/' he promised her. Which 
was no rasher than many promises made 
under similar conditions* 

" Thank goodness you've come, In- 
spector.'* Sir Robert had met the police 
at the door. " A dreadful tragedy/' 

** So I gather. Sir Robert/' answered the 
other. " One of your guests been mur- 
dered ? " 

" I didn't say so on the 'phone/' said Sir 
Robert. " I said— killed/* 

The inspector grunted, " Where's the 
body ? " 

11 In the smoking-room/* He led the 
way towards the door. 

" I've got the key in my pocket/' said 
Seymour ; and the inspector looked at 
him quickly. 

41 May I ask your name, sir ? " he remarked, 

" Seymour — Major Seymour/' returned the 
other, Xi I turned out the light and locked 
the door while Sir Robert was telephoning for 
you, to ensure that nothing would be moved/* 

The inspector grunted again, as Seymour 
opened the door and struck a light, 

" Over in that window, Inspector " 

began Sir Robert, only to stop and gape 
foolishly across the room* 

4i I don't quite understand t gentlemen/* 
said Inspector Grayson, testily. 

' No more do I/* muttered Bob Seymour, 
with a puzzled frown, 

The window-sill was empty ; the body 
was gone. 

11 I left him lying, as we found him, half 
in and half out of the window/' said Seymour* 
4i His legs were inside, his head and shoulders 
from the waist upwards were outside." 

It was the constable who interrupted him. 
While the others were standing by the door 
he had crossed to the window and leaned out. 

" Here's the body, sir/' he cried. M Out- 
side in the flower- bed/' 

The extraordinary solution of this mystery wilt appear m next month's issue. 



is Betting a 




Whoie writing* on the subject are well known. 

THE question I am asked is not : 
"Is betting a cause, fertile and 
increasing, of crime ? " but, "Is it 
a mug's game ? " This definition, 
mark you, is a quotation from one who had 
long been on the Turf, and not the utterance 
of a philosopher or moralist with no special 
experience. Perhaps the question had better 
been : "Is backing a mug's game ? " since 
the M bookie JJ bets, generally wins, and 
often makes a fortune. On this point an 
old and prosperous bookmaker contributed 
a very illuminative chapter to Mr. Seebohm 
Rown tree's ' 4 Betting and G ambling, a 
National Evil." Beginning as most lads 
do, he was soon " wide enough awake to 


see that ' backing ' was no good, but that 
bookmaking was the game:" His ripe con- 
clusion is that " betting is a one-sided game, 
and is almost wholly against the backer/' 
Again, " I have never known a backer of 
horses permanently to succeed." And com- 
prehensively he answers our question : " I 
am not writing as a moralist or a senti- 
mentalist, but in a purely business way ; 
using common sense to prove to misguided, 
foolish people that to invest their money in 
backing horses is a stupid, unwise, un- 
businesslike mode, a way that means abso- 
lute loss, if not ruin, simply because the 
chances to win are so great against them 
that success is next to impossible." A 
knowledge of the law of averages will keep 
from betting all who are not " mugs," and 
when to this are added the inevitable 
accidents in training or in the race, and the 
far from unknown swindling on the Turf, 
nothing but a perfectly irrational presump- 
tion will lead the ordinary backer to antici- 
pate any unusual success. So I have found a 
frequently effectual antidote to the incipient 
fever to exist in pointing out the absurdity 
of imagining that the clerk or the carpenter, 
the eostermonger or the cook, can achieve 
financial success by betting when men who 
have devoted years to " following the Turf " 
cannot know, and admit they cannot know, 
by what horse a race will be won. In an 
adverse review of my friend Mr. Seebohm 
Rowntree's "Betting and . Gambling," to 
which I contributed a chapter, I read : " We 
are inclined, from long experience of racing, 
to believe firmly that out of every hundred 


Is Betting a Mug's Game ? 


people who bet habitually ninety lose 

" What can you know about the merits of 
horses you have never seen ? " I ask a lad. 
His only ponderable answer would be, " I 
know : nothing'; but. I take the advice of 
experts. My daily paper is good and dis- 
interested enough to pay a large salary to 
some Turf man, who gives me the result of 
his exceptional knowledge. I back Augur's 
' stars.' I follow Captain Coe." This sounds 
reasonable, for in these days of specialization 
we are every day seeking and following the 
judgment of specialists. But its reasonable- 
ness vanishes entirely when one takes the 
trouble to compare predictions with results. 
This I have done over and over again, never 
once with a result satisfactory or compli- 
mentary to these soi-disant guides to know- 
ledge, or even to the probable opinion. This 
method wearts many from a belief that either 
they, or any expert, cari know enough to form 
a basis for the hope of winning, except by 
the merest and most occasional chance. 

I once followed for a while on paper the 
methods of a certain well-known Turf 
prophet, . but t found nine failures in the 
daily " stir ( * before I came to one that was 
right, ami stiffening this plan for a month 
found thd successes would be few. So much 
for the chief Mahdi of the Turf ! 

Before me are two cuttings from daily 
papers which demonstrate how sporting 
prophets cannot £gree and cannot succeed. 
In one there w£re four successes to one 
hundred and twenty-three failures ; in the 
other nine to one hundred and four. Many 
prudential strings to their bows ; but only 
thirteen out of two hundred and forty do 
not snap ! 

These tables appeal to the eye ; but 
more interesting it was when, addressing 
audiences of working men, I read out the 
prophecies from the early edition and got 
the chairman to call out Right or Wrong in 
each case from the edition which gave all the 
winners. In another case before me I see 
that the experts of nineteen papers gave 
forty horses to win four races at Manchester, 
but failed in every single case. In another 
(Ebor Handicap, etc.), for eigfct races the 
purely sporting papers gave seventy-nine 
probable winners, with five successes. In 
another case a friend calculated for a month, 
following one prominent expert, and found 
at 2s. 6d. a time he would have lost ^50. 
Generally, however, it is fair to say, I found 
it was only between seven and eight to one 
against any prediction of any prophet being 
right. What name but that of a " mug " 
would be given to anyone who in any other 
line of thought or actibn based belief or 
action on such a percentage ? 

Another variation is to back the mounts of 

Digitized bjr\jiOOglC 

the best jockeys. I have before me the 
results as compiled by a sporting paper. 
Twelve jockeys have their mounts and their 
wins tabulated. The percentage of wins to 
mounts varies from 10*14 to 2873 ; but on 
the " £1 a mount system " in two cases the 
backer would have won, and in ten he would 
have lost, while the highest winning is 
£34 os. 4d. and the greatest loss £187 7s. 4d. 
The two wins aggregate £57 2s. 4d., and the 
ten losses amount to ^798 9s. 6d. Betting 
at large can only pay by the prevalence and 
the victimization of " mugs." 

When I first drew attention in the Press 
to this subject the Duke of Portland deter- 
mined to put the matter to a practical 
test, so he sent £7 14s. to thirteen of the 
sporting prophets, with the result that they 
sent him nineteen winners and ninety-five 
losers. 1 Bad as this record was for the 
reputation of the prophets, their lack of 
knowledge was proved by the fact that four 
out of the thirteen were only able to guess 
one winner to thirty-five losers. The Duke 
saw the utter folly of the thing, and re- 
marked that if he had yielded to the tempta- 
tion of backing their tips he would by that 
time have been in the workhouse. Another 
noble lord asked me, as a witness before the 
Lords' Committee on Betting, " What harm 
is there in betting if I can afford it ? " I 
said, " My lord, you can't afford it. You 
can't afford to give an irrational and de- 
moralizing example to those about and 
beneath you. Follies in high places in- 
variably filter down, and then their evil 
effects affect most injuriously the more 
ignorant and jpoor." 



The Well-known Racing Expert. 

THE question as to whether betting is 
a mug's game is one which cannot 
be answered by a wave of the hand. 
I have known men start off their 
betting career with a big winner, and have 
thus become fascinated with the game, but 
who have not been able to keep up the " form " 
— these racing terms will intrude — and have 
soon given their winnings back. This bears 
out the first argument which I wish to make. 
These backers have been inexperienced. As 
in every other walk of life, experience has 
to be bought and paid for, but once the 
novitiate stage is over and the backer has 
learnt to temper wisdom with sound judg- 
ment, he will say, as I do, that racing is not 
a mug's gaJH^fnjnal from 


Is Betting a Mug's Game ? 

One question is invariably put by those 
who do not see eye to eye with the betting 
man. " How do you account," they say, 
" for the fact that bookmakers go on winning 
year in and year out ? They can only live 
upon what they make out of those who bet." 
This looks unanswerable, but the answer is 
not a difficult one. The money is won from 
the inexperienced backer, and especially 
from what I may call the casual racegoer. 
Let me give an illustration. A man is 
anxious for a few days' relaxation. If he is 
a " sporting " man the first thing he will 
think of is the racecourse. He is prepared to 
spend so much on his amusement. His bets 
are made indiscriminately ; he picks out long 
shots that are probably hopeless chances — 
and he leaves his money on the course. 
This is no overdrawn picture. When one 
considers the number of race-meetings there 
are in the United Kingdom, and the vast 
and different populaces they appeal to, it is 
small matter for surprise that there are a 
very large number of casual racing men who 
are only half educated in the finer points 
of the Sport of Kings and democrats. 

It is only fair that I should interpose 
with a question here. If racing is a mug's 
game — it is a comprehensive term and in- 
tended to damn all who bet — how is it 
that there are thousands of men who get a 
living year after year at backing horses, and 
a really good living, too ? They are men 
of great experience, are sound judges of men 
and horses, and can weigh up " form ",to an 
ounce, so to speak, despite its many varying 
phases and somewhat erratic character. 
Some may get information of a reliable 
kind, but the sheet-anchor of the successful 
backer is the " form " of the horses, helped 
by a sane and sober judgment. To men of 
this character racing is not a mug's game, 
and there are very many indeed who 
combine the qualities I have mentioned 
and whose credit balances are increased 
year after year by what they win from the 

Points made by those who are opposed to 
betting not only often lack conviction, but 
they show a lack of knowledge of essential 
facts. I wonder how many could tell the 
difference between odds-on and odds- 
against or reckon up a betting slip ? The 
wise man keeps a still tongue on matters he 
does not understand. f Argument is far more 
telling when a speaker has an intimate 
knowledge of his subject. I remember some 
, years ago a very learned gentleman con- 
nected with the Church, who may possibly 
come out of his retirement, taking the trouble 
of tabulating a statement showing the profit 
and loss account of all the newspaper pro- 
phets on a certain day. It looked a formid- 
able indictment, but no schoolboy could 

have done it worse, for he included all n' 
runners as losers, and on this partial • 
occasion there were a good many hor- 
which did not fulfil their engagements. It 
an excellent illustration of the wild stai 
ments that are often made on matte 
relating to racing, and if errors are made 
one thing it is reasonable to suppose that 
lack of knowledge will lead to mistakes * 
other directions. And the assertion th 
" betting is a mug's game " is one of the 
sweeping statements which are made with 
rollicking recklessness which is apt to misled 
the unthinking. 

It is popularly supposed that bookmakin 
is a life of luxury and ease, but a lar^ 
number are worse off than the men who be 
with them. Bookmaking requires brains 
and the quick " working out " of a book i 
no easy matter. It is the aim of all book 
makers to "bet to figures," naturally to a bit 
under the odds if they can. That is their per 
centage on the capital they have put in theii 
books. In countries where the Pari-Mutuel 
is legal, the general percentage allowed to 
be deducted is ten per cent. That is to say. 
that for every * hundred pounds invested 
backers must lose ten pounds ot it. Most 
bookmakers, I fancy, would be glad to get 
one per cent, on their turnover, cii a year's 
working, and out of this they would have to 
pay ring and travelling fees for themselves 
and clerk, and wages for the latter. 

It is not always possible to take a 
hundred and five pounds to pay out a 
hundred pounds over any horse. The Pari- 
Mutuel will take ten pounds on every " cen- 
tury," and this is as unalterable as the laws 
of the Medes and Persians. But such is the 
knowledge of backers nowadays that they 
frequently take from the layers a hundred 
and twenty pounds for every hundred 
pounds they invest. That means twenty 
pounds of capital gone. Some weeks When 
things have been running well for backers 
I have known the ring to lose thousands of 
pounds between one settling day and another. 

With backers, staking is as fine an art as 
" betting round " is to the bookmakers, and 
a good system of staking will invariably 
beat the book. When opponents of racing 
wish to point a moral they adorn their tale 
with the old-fashioned level stake system 
of backing. 

I will give a rough illustration of a system 
of staking, and estimate that an ordinary 
backer can pick one winner in five. Sup- 
posing they occur in this order : — 

LLLLW (5 to 2) LLLW (2 to 1). 

Now, on a level stake the above would 
show a loss of 2 J points, because there are 
seven losers which are reduced by the 
aggregate odds of 4 J to 1 against the 
winners. But supposing the stake is 1, ij f 



Is Betting a Mug's Game ? 


2, ^£, 3, starting at 1 again after a winner, 
what do we find ? Seven points are lost up 
to the first winner, but the three points 
stake placed on that wins 7J, In the second 
series there is a loss of 4^ but a gain of 5 
over the winner at 2 to 1, The net result 
is a win of 1 point instead of a loss of 2 £ 
points ! 

Backers regulate their stakes according to 
their bank, and various sys- 
tems of staking are employed. 
After a certain number of 
losers that sequence is cut out 
and another started. Some 
count odds-on * chances as 
losers, and there are other 
variations. Of course, there 
are times when long odds 
against chances are met with, 
and often two or three winners 
are backed in succession. I 
am not advocating any system 
of staking, but only wish to 
point out that there are 
ways and means, outside the 
knowledge of those who re- 
gard betting as a mug's game, 
of making racing pay. 

To argue that betting is a 
mug's game because jockeys 
do not pay to follow on a 
level stake is entirely beside 
the question. Can any sane 
man expect them to ? At the 
most there are only seven 
races in a day's programme, 
and fields may range from 
hv^ to twenty runners. No 
matter how many horses may 
be competing there is only 
one winning position in each 
race. The others must be 
losing ones, and the fact that 
the majority of jockeys must 
have a poor average is so 
obvious that the most elemen- 
tary student of racing must 
see the foolishness of following 
jockeys* mounts. 

The idea that backers cannot 
win because the bookmakers 
" pinch " the prices against 
each horse can easily be disproved, Another 
futile contention is that bookmakers make 
their own favourites. Backers are too wide- 
awake to stand such nonsense as that. 
Favourites are made by sheer weight of 
money, and the greater the amounts put 
on a horse the more his price must shorten 
and the others expand. 

Now let us see how backers are not 

despoiled by the bookmakers in an unfair 
manner, and how the former are often 
given chances of taking more out of a book 
than they put in. Incidentally, it will give 
an idea how a hundred -pound book is 
made. I take a race at random— the first 
at Manchester on May 26th. The prices 
were 5 to 2 Novel, 3 to r Swift Flight, 4 to 1 
Fiddle-de-Dee, 8 to 1 Rosebreeze and Sun- 
stroke, and 20 to 1 Jasper, 
Messina, Orblike, and Loch 
Quoich. The book works out 
as follows : — 



Take Out 



Novel 40 


Suilt Flight 33 


Fiddle -de- Dee 25 


Rnsc breeze 12A 


Sunstroke 12J 

We cannot put twenty 
pounds in for the four out- 
siders, as, in the majority 
of cases, they would not 
bring in a penny. Outsiders 
of this character usually " run 
for the book/' but in order 
not to make the illustration 
too favourable, I will esti- 
mate that they bring in ten 
pounds, The book makes an 
interesting study. If Novel 
wins, the bookmaker pays 
out a hundred pounds and he 
takes ninety - three pounds 
wherewith to do it ! If Swift 
Flight wins he takes a hun- 
dred and pays out ninety- 
nine, Fiddle-de-Dee suits him 
better, for he takes one 
hundred and eight pounds, 
and this horse was the winner 
of the race, A bigger profit 
is shown if either of the 
8 to 1 chances wins, but 
the bookmaker's chances of 
winning are proportionately 
smaller. If the bookmaker 
has not written the names 
of the four outsiders in his 
book (and it is an odds-on 
chance that he has not), the three favourites 
are his biggest liabilities, and he loses if 
either proves successful. 

So much for the belief held in some 
quarters that f ' betting is a mug's game/ 1 
There may be " mugs ,f betting, but I will 
venture the statement that there is more 
money lost by " mugs " who dabble in 
stocks and shares than there is at racing. 

by Google 

Original from 




DEEP into the greenwoods, ail 
on a summer's day, wandered 
a comely young man, whistling 
as he went. 
He was feeling exceedingly pleased 
with life for no particular reason except 
that he was young, fit, was on a holiday, 
and was spending it the way he liked best. 
And his particular w^ay was just to make no 

Digitized by G* 

plans, but to wander off 
wherever the spirit led 
him, and he knew by ex- 
perience that it usually 
led him into pleasant 
places, and gave him 
something of adventure 
by the way. 
Just now he was following the,; erratic 
course of a jolly little stream that wound in 





and out and round about and twisted and 
turned and tumbled, till for all you knew it 
might have turned you widdershins and you 
back at the place of your starting, So, not 
knowing in the least where he was, nor why, 
nor exactly when (for the trees overhead 
shut to and discreetly hid the sun), he wan- 
dered on deep into the green shadows, and 
let happen what would. 

Digitized by GoOQle 

Then, all of a sudden, with a turn of that 
intriguing little stream, he came upon a most 
entrancingly beautiful girl with a large 
broom p industriously sweeping a path through 
what appeared to be the depths of the 

' What on earth are you doing ? " he ex- 
claimed, involuntarily, almost before he 
knew he had spoken, as it were. 
Original from 



Witch of the Woods 

■' Keeping the wolf from the door/' she 
replied, coolly. 

" But, good heavens ! " he said, in alarm, 
*' you don't mean to tell me there are wolves 
here, in these wonderful but usually respect- 
able Sussex woods ? " 

" Young man," she answered, and all this 
time she had scarcely so much as glanced at 
him, but kept busily on with her sweeping, 
" there are. wolves' lurking behind every tree 
in the woods, and round the corners of most 
streets, too." 

" You amaze me," he rejoined, seriously. 

" Not only wolves, but witches too/' she 
went on. 

" That I can more readily understand." 

" You are pleased to be obvious, sir," she 
remarked, giving a particularly firm sweep 
to a stray bunch of leaves. 

" True. I apologize — but what with the 
broom and all," he murmured, vaguely. 

" And yet/' she said, pausing suddenly to 
lean on her broom and gaze at him with a 
deep seriousness, " you are nearer the truth 
than you know.i' And therewith she fell to 
sweeping again vigorously. 

"It pleases you to be cryptic, madam," he 
said, at last, when he had recovered from the 
effect of that full gaze (did I say she was tall 
and exceedingly beautiful ?). 

" Your whole appearance is cryptic," she 

He glanced apprehensively about his 

" Cryptic, no — eccentric, possibly — com- 
fortable, certainly," he asserted. 

" I was not referring to your personal 
appearance," she said, coldly, though she 
had the glimmerings of a faint pink blush, 
which showed at least that she was human. 
" I meant your appearance in these woods." 

"Ah, you probably have me there! I 
am physically incapable of seeing those silly 
littte notices about ' Dogs will be, and Rub- 
bish must not be, shot here,' and all that. 
And if I do see them, I never know which I 
really am." 

The Dianaesque (did I say she was more 
like Diana than Aphrodite ?) mouth twitched 
a little, but she continued her sweeping 

" Again you mistake my meaning, I was 
in reality referring to the fact that you are 
the first stranger to pass by this place for a 

" It was indeed high time I came," he 
murmured, complacently. 

" That is as it may be," she remarked, and 
therewith her sweeping was done, she having 
cleared among the leaves a little path that 
led down to the stream and upwards steeply 
through the trees, whither he could not see. 

She surveyed her work with evident 
approval, and then, hoisting her broom 


calmly under her arm, started with an easy 
swinging walk up through the trees. 

It was obvious that the mcident could not 
end there. 1 1 was ridiculous. It was absurd. 
It was unthinkable. 

Quick action is necessary to him who sports 
with the gods. The young man stepped for- 
ward with incomparable grace and laid a 
hand upon the broom — indeed, before she 
could resist he had taken it from her. 

" Excuse me," he murmured; " 1 think I 
see a twig — a mere nothing — but still a twig." 

And therewith set to with the broom on the 
path again. 

NOW, if you have never tried to use one 
of those detestable things, a garden- 
broom — besom, I understand it is 
called — you will not appreciate his courage. 
For the wretched thing is no broom at all, 
but a mere collection of unwieldy limp sticks 
tied round a knotty and unpleasant handle, 
and most difficult of manipulation. In fact r 
it is a weapon rather for a witch than for 
a mortal. 

He failed dismally, and yet with a certain 
grace, she watching his efforts, calm and un- 
moved. He desisted, but kept command of 
the broom. 

'■ Before this pleasant interview comes to 
an end — if it ever must end — I personally see 
no reason why it ever should — I should be 
really grateful if you would elucidate two 
points that have occurred in our deeply 
interesting conversation — re wolves and re 
witches — also, as arising out of, but subsidiary 
to the said points — wherefore this path ? 
Which, of course, brings us back to the exact 
point at which our intercourse started." 

" Your request is courteous, young man, 
and not unreasonable." 

"I'm glad you look upon it like that. 
Might I suggest a seat ? " He airily indi- 
cated the roots of a great beech tree. 

She sank on to it, and then curled her feet . 
in some inscrutable way round a projecting 
root. He placed the broom with precision 
about four feet from her and sat upon it. It 
occurred to him that retention of that broom 
might be an essential part of the game. 

" I would not venture to question one so ' 
obviously strayed from Olympus," he said 
presently, feeling that the silence, .perfect as 
it was, was being wasted, " and yet — wolves 
— witches — brooms — a swept path here in 
these Sussex woods — no, I confess it is beyond 

" It is certainly amazing," she murmured, 

dreamily, " and yet " She lapsed into 

silence again. 

" The wolves, I take it," he began, 
encouragingly, " are metaphorical ? " 

She nodded slowly. 

" Yet that surprises me." 


Stella Callaghan 


You understand, she looked expensive, 
from her neat, brogue-shod feet, her sports 
silk hose, her perfectly-cut tweed skirt, and 
wonderfully-woven silk sweater. She was 
Diana turned out for a day in the country 
from Bond Street. 

" It may." She passed it over lightly and 
dismissed it with a little wave of her hand. 

M Witches ? " 

" In the plural, no — but — lean forward, 
young man, and see, if you can, where this 
path leads." 

He did so — and behold the path led up 
through the trees to a little open glade, and 
there he could just see the indication of a 
small cottage with a chimney-stack sticking 
out on top, for all the world like the cottage 
where as children we knew the witch lived in 
the wood. 

" In there ? " he questioned, breathlessly. 

She nodded gravely. 

" From six in the evening to ten in the 
morning/' she answered. " And from cir- 
cumstances over which I have but little 
control, I am her handmaid. Hence this 
path, which she desired me to sweep that she 
might pass easily to the stream. For it is 
necessary when she returns from her nefarious 
business about the world that she cleanse 
herself in the stream every evening " 

' I understand." 

" You do not, young man — but I would 
further enlighten you — if you would do me 

At that his eagerness leapt from his 
heart into his eyes, and even to his feet, 
for he sprang up and knelt gracefully before 

Before answering, before so much as 
glancing at all this eagerness, she stretched 
out her hand and calmly appropriated the 
broom which he had thus vacated. He 
cursed himself inwardly for not having 
retained his presence of mind and therewith 
that confounded implement. 

" Tell me," she said, graciously, leaning a 
little towards him, with another of those 
direct glances which so disturbed his poise, 
" are you a plumber ? " 

And at that, for the first time in this 
intriguing encounter, the young man (his 
name, ,by the way, being Richard Bellamy) 
was slightly disconcerted. He glanced agita- 
tedly at "his thumb-nails, but there was 
nothing wrong there. Then inspiration re- 

" As far as my humble capacity allow?," 
he said, " I have made some slight study of 
plumbing — such things as the hearts of men 
and women — motives, actions, etc. If I can 
be of any use " 

" What I require plumbing," she said, 
coldlv, ' is a well." 

" Ah ! " he rejoined, brightly, " the same 

VoL w.-a 

old well — with the same old inhabitant at 
the bottom of it ? " 

She rose, rather majestically. 

" You are wrong — it is a perfectly ordinary 
well — and it is the bucket that is at the 
bottom of it." 

He also rose gravely. 

" Lead me," he said, " to this perfectly 
ordinary well and recalcitrant bucket. They 
shall be brought to order." 

" Oh ! " said Diana (for such indeed was 
her perfectly fitting name), " can you, will 
you, really ? " 

And at that quite human, breathless little 
outburst he felt, man-like, that he had the 
advantage, and secretly gloried therein. 
Also, as they went up the steep little hill 
in those deep greenwoods he possessed him- 
self quietly and courteously of the broom 

" Yes," she murmured, dreamily, " you 
may take it. It is, alas ! no use to me." 

" It is, then, hers ? " 

" From six in the evening till ten in the 
morning — yes." 

Ho handled it gingerly. 

" With such things, then," he said, 
reverently, " is ail the magic of the world 
and the greenwoods wrought." 

" It may be." 

" It is," he said, and looked at her. 

But she would not look at him, only per- 
haps the steep climb up the little path had 
made her cheeks a slightjy deeper pink. 

AND herewith they came to the open 
space, which held the most entrancing 
witch's cottage you ever saw. It had 
a door in the middle with a porch, a window 
on each side, a little pointed roof with a 
chimney sticking out at the top. And all 
round it was a tiny garden wrested from the 
woodland, and in the garden was the well. 
It was just the sort of well that would 
be supplied with a toy box of a model 
village. Richard felt that he could not be 
frightened of it. 

He peered cautiously over the side. The 
water therein was very low and clear, and 
at the bottom of it he could see the bucket 
lying helpless and forlorn on its side. In 
the air dangled the broken rope. 

" Urn !— ah ! " he said ; " it is, I think, a 
mere matter of a hook." 

" Quite so," said the girl, and immediately 
produced from where it was lying by the 
side of the well one of those great hooks you 
see in the beams of cottages. I think they 
must be for hanging up hams. 

" Magic again," murmured Richard. " I 
said hook ; there is hook at once." 

" I have been endeavouring to tie the 
wretched thing on to the rope for three days," 
said she, in a voice of quiet tragedy. 



Witch of the Woods 

11 Ah ! " said he, beginning to get busy 
with the dangling end, ** and meanwhile ? " 

" I've had to letch every drop of water 
from the stream." 

" This will be the best day's angling I've 
had for many years. I am grateful to you." 

" When you've landed the bucket," she 
said, pointedly, " the gratitude will be mine/' 

44 You challenge me ? " 

" I will do more. I offer a reward." 

He looked at her seriously. 

" There is but one reward I would wish, 
and that is a very high one." 

" Name it, stf," she said, coolly. 

" The witch, I think you said, is off duty 
from six in the evening to ten in the morn- 
ing ? " 

She assented. 

" Then if T should be successful in re- 
claiming the bucket, I would claim the 
honour of your company from ten in the 
morning to six in the evening." 

She looked contemplative. 

" Life," she said at last, " without a 
bucket has been curiously unpleasant — 
almost unendurable — and yet " 

" I will not enforce the reward," be said, 
quickly. " Time enough when I have caught 
my fish." 

He had his hook knotted well by now and 
proceeded to unwind the creaking rope. It 
dangled at last tantalizingly a foot above 
the water. 

14 Damn," he said, very softly. 

" Quite so," she agreed. " There is three 
feet of rope on to the bucket end." 

" There would be. Well, there's nothing 
for it," and he proceeded to take off his coat. 

" Are you going down ? " she said, rather 

" Madam," he replied, " there is a bucket 
to be fetched which is of value to you ; 
also there are footholds and rope to steady 
oneself. I have done stranger things than 

" Where ? " she asked. 

" In GaUipoli," he replied, and without 
more ado, and a little smile that was meant 
to be a brave farewell, he was over the 
parapet of the well and cautiously feeling 
for the next foothold. It was a matter of 
half an hour before he had that hook firmly 
into the bucket, and meanwhile strange 
things had been happening to the Olympian 
girl who watched him breathlessly from 
above. When at last his head and shoulders 
appeared again over the parapet she gave 
him both her hands to help him finally to 
firm ground. He held them quite a minute 
longer than was necessary. 

Then between them they reeled the rope 
in, standing opposite each other to give more 
purchase on the pulling, their hands touching 
on the rusty iron handle. Thus does Man 

Digitized by vjOOQIC 

occasionally, by reverting to the Cave Age, 
gain his ascendancy over Woman — no woman 
could face cheerfully the green slime and 
possible frog-things that inhabit a deep well. 

As the bucket creaked, wobbled, and 
spluttered to the top of the parapet, slopping 
its cool contents over the side, she gave him 
one of those direct looks, from which now 
all coldness had vanished, and momentarily 
an amazing softness and gratitude filled 
its place. But by the time all this had been 
done the sun was westering, and when Richard 
had again partially recovered from the effect 
of that long direct look, he had the sense 
and sufficient caution left to look at his 
watch. It was ten minutes to six. 

" I must away, madam, ere a deeper spell 
and one more harmful be put upon me." 

" She is a punctual person," agreed the 
girl, with the quiver of a smile. 

" But to-morrow ? " he said, tentatively 
and very delicately. 

'* If you claim your reward." 

" I claim nothing, madam. But that 
rope is a makeshift affair, and may give 
again at any moment. I would like to 
make a job of it. I w r ould bring fresh rope." 

" Come, then," she said, " if it please 
you," and therewith turned away into the 
little cottage, and only looked back when 
he was far down the path towards the 


NOW, having got so far on with so 
promising an adventure in the green- 
woods of Sussex, it would be a poor 
and unworthy reader who could not fill in 
the next few days for himself. Granted 
the weather held — which it did — one has 
but to imagine these two in a delightful 
if elusive companionship from ten in the 
morning, or say ten-thirty — for Master 
Richard Bellamy had caution in him on 
his mother's side — till five-thirty in the 
evening — a companionship of which the 
elusiveness was as attractive as the intimacy, 
for with all her charm, her unconvention- 
ally, her Olympian poise (or did I say 
pose ? — no, I don't think so) with its occa- 
sional lapses into the entirely human and 
youthful, Diana of the woodlands gave him 
no clue as to herself other than her person- 
ality. That is to say, that at the end of 
three days he knew nothing further of who 
she was nor whence she came, nor why she 
lived with a witch in a cottage hidden in 
the heart of the woods and toiled most of 
the day with somewhat inexperienced hands 
to make it neat and clean and prepare meals 
and do all those thousand and one things 
that even so tiny a cottage demands. 

" Why do it ? " asked Richard once, as 
he solemnly choppeflr fflp faggot-wood for 


Stella Callaghan 


" He awoke soon alter 6 p. in, to find looking down on him with an inscrutable 
expression a small, energetic, middle- aged woman/* 

the tmy kitchen fire. '* Cannot She, with 
a whisk of her broom, so to speak, set all 
this straight P and with a clap of the hands 
bring dainty food, ready cooked, to the 
table ? There should be plenty of firing 
in that place to which She most probably 

" You do not understand. This is a part . 
of the penalty I must pay — or " 

" Or ? *' he questioned, gently. 

'Or go back whence I came," she 
answered, and turned away to set the table 
for supper. 

Rut the lunches were delicious, for day 

Digitized by dOOglc 

by day they were taken out info the green- 
woods, down by the stream or under the 
great beeches, and he taught her how to 
tickle for trout in the pool where the stream 
grew wider and deeper and the water swung 
in little eddies about the rocks. They were 
poaching, he guessed, but that concerned 
neither him nor her, and no one ever passed 
that way to disturb the delicious peace of 
their days. 

Of course, he was in love with her. I 
think he had been from the moment that 
he held both her hands on emerging from 
the well. He thinks it was from before 



Witch of the Woods 

that even. Of course, he showed it. And 

Was he missing liis opportunities ? 

That was the question that worried him at 
the end of each wonderful day, as half in a 
dream he went back to his village inn, five 
miles away. Never had diffidence taken him 
in this way before ; he grew hot to think how 
little diffidence ever had taken him, and 
cold at the thought that now, when for the 
first time it mattered vitally, perhaps this 
very diffidence would be his undoing. 

Supposing the weather broke ? 

Supposing the witch elected to remain at 
home ? 

Supposing Diana, the wonderful goddess 
herself, vanished ? 

It was just that, on the sixth day, that 
actually happened. 

He strode through the woods, determined 
that, come about how it may, something 
should be done, said, indicated. 

And then she was not there. 

The cottage was locked up, no smoke 
came from the chimney. He went round to 
the back, a sick feeling in his heart, and no 
one was chopping wood or wringing out 
cloths. The cottage was impenetrable, 
calm, secret. Frantically he searched the 
porch, the window-sills, the garden gate, 
the well, for a message, a note, some word 
of explanation, and there was none. 

He tried to look in at the windows, but 
the little casement blinds were discreetly 
drawn. He knocked, thinking she might be 
inside and ill, or asleep, or have fainted. 
Lurid possibilities dawned on his mind and 
drove him frantic. 

He went on knocking. 
, There was no response. 

The noise of his knocking sounded strange 
and incongruous in the heart of the still 
greenwoods. The cottage mocked him. It 
was suddenly as if it never had been in- 
habited, as if the whole thing had been 
a dream. The cottage, the woods, the 
golden sun, the green shadows, all mocked 
him. Then climbing with infinite dexterity 
on to the water-butt at the back, he managed 
to wriggle along and look into the tiny 
larder through the skylight. 

There on the shelf he saw a large ham, 
uncut. With relief that was almost painful, 
he slid back to earth, and taking out his 
handkerchief, mopped his forehead. He had 
been through a good deal in a few minutes. 

For where there is a large uncut ham, there 
will eventually people — or a person — come 
to eat it. 

" Where there's ham there's hope," he 
murmured, desperately, and took up a firm 
position on the ground with his back to the 
garden-gate. He was prepared to wait there 
until such time as the owner of the ham 

by Google 

returned, be it Diana, or the Witch, or the 
Bailiffs — he remembered her vague allusions 
to the wolves at the door. 

He had with him some fruit and little 
fresh-baked rolls from the inn — his contribu- 
tion to what should have been that delicious 
alfresco lunch h deux. With such, a man in 
love can make a passable meal, helped down 
by a flask. He was prepared valiantly to 
stick it throughout the day and night if 
necessary. Most of the day he cursed. He 
cursed himself up hill and down dale for — 
he was not quite sure for what — for loving 
her — for letting her vanish — for not naving 
foreseen that she would vanish — for 

And then he fell asleep — flat on his back, 
his soft hat over his eyes, and his body firmly 
blocking the way through the garden-gate. ~ 

HE awoke soon after 6 p.m. to find look- 
ing down on him with an inscrutable 
expression a small, upright, energetic, 
middle-aged woman, with beady black eyes 
and a thin, pointed nose. The witch — in a 
well-cut serviceable tweed suit and a felt hat 
and carrying an attache-case — but still most 
undoubtedly and incontestably the witch. 

He sprang to his feet apologizing, for 
Master Richard Bellamy's manners never 
deserted him/ however his presence of mind 
behaved, and tried to take off his hat, only 
to find it rolling at his feet. He smoothed 
back his hair instead, and retained his 
position with his back to the gate. Then he 
saw a sudden twinkle in the witch's beady 
black eye — he was quick to notice such things 
and take advantage of them. 

" Lady," he began, simply, " knowing you 
to be what you are, I need not explain myself. 
I only ask you — where is she ? " 

She ignored his question and merely ad- 
justed some glasses on her pointed nose in 
order to observe him better. 

" May I ask how long you have been here, 
Mr. Richard Bellamy ? " 

" Since 10.15 a.m.," he replied, looking at 
his watch. 

" And what have you had to eat ? " 

He indicated the pile of spent strawberry 
stalks and a few crumbs of roll. 

" I couldn't get at the ham," he said, sadly. 

" The ham ? " she said, sharply, wheeling 
round to him. 

" Only by the presence of the ham in your 
larder — indicating the true being of the cot- 
tage — was my reason saved. Otherwise I 
should have known it was all a dream — a 
dream from which I should never have 

" Come and have some," said the witch, 

" Lady, you are unspeakably kind," said 
he, throwing open the garden-gate and step- 
ping aside, with a bow. 


Stella Callaghan 


" Incidentally, I wish to get into my cot- 
tage," muttered the witch. 

*' You have me there," laughed Richard, 
" but I am prepared to risk everything, for 
you are the only being who.can tell me where 
she is." 

" I can't tell you. I don't know myself 
— but I should have been disappointed in 
you if you hadn't waited here to-day." 

" You don't know ? " 

" No, I don't — but I suspect she is not far 
off. She left me in the middle of the night 
— or something near it — but, bless her, she'd 
put my breakfast ready before she left." 

" She would," murmured Richard, enthusi- 

" The mice got at it, but still — she meant 
well," said the witch, removing her felt hat 
and jamming it into a chair. " And now, 
first supper, and then business." ' 

" It is a strange thing," said Richard, as 
he helped her in with the ham, " that how- 
ever worn with anxiety one is, however 
deeply one is feeling, the feeling of hunger 
goes a little deeper still." 

The ham cut excellently. Some stout that 
the witch produced by magic, went well with 
it. Richard felt that Diana was coming 
nearer to him. 

" And now, Mr. Richard Bellamy," said 
the witch, as they cleared away, " what do 
you know about Diana ? " 

" She is the goddess of the moon and the 
stars and the woods and " 

" Oh, cut all that — it's in mythological 
dictionaries, and if you're going on to poetry, 
Keats has done it better. What do you 
really know ? " 

" Nothing — not even her surname— except 
that she is the only girl that has ever existed 
for me." 

" How many times have you said that ? " 

Richard counted on his fingers, thought- 

" Five times altogether — but " Then 

he suddenly broke down on it. " Oh, let's 
cut it all, Witch, because I'm in deadly 
earnest, and I was such an infernal fool all 
these days that I never said anything, and I 
dcn't know even whether she — well, there it 
is — and now I've lost her, like an idiot. 
What is she ? " 

And then, because the truth was looking 
out of his eyes, and the witch knew as much 
about men and women as most people, and 
also knew all about Mr. Richard Bellamy in 
particular, she pushed him gently into a chair 
and placed cigarettes and matches before 

DIANA is Diana Melford," she said, 
" only niece of my cousin, who owns 
these woods and everything else 
about here. She hasn't a penny of her 

Digitized by QjiOOglC 

own, and the old fool wants to make her 
his heir, instead of only giving her an 
allowance. But she's got highfalutin' ideas 
about marriage — she's very young, you 
know — and directly this was known — about 
the heirship, I mean, not the ideas — she de- 
clares that she is pestered by wretched men 
night and day, wanting to marry her and the 
Melford estates together. And she won't 
have any of them — doesn't like the type, she 
says — so she up and quarrels with her uncle 
over it, won't go near the place, won't be 
made an heiress, and in the last extremity 
won't even take the allowance, starts out to 
earn her own living as a mannequin in one 
of these blessed society shops run by Lady 
Someone or other, finds herself in more bother 
than ever with men — she happens to be very 
beautiful, you see " 

" I know," muttered Richard. 

" And finally comes running to me to look 
after her. So, as I live in this cottage through 
the summer and go up to town every day, I 
popped her in here as my maid-of -all- work — 
these woods are private, you know, and you're 
trespassing — to see how she liked really 
earning her living, until she comes to her 
senses apd learns how to discriminate 
between men. I give her ten shillings a 
week, all found. That's what Diana is." 

There was a long silence in the little cot- 
tage, while Richard smoked the witch's 
cigarettes and looked out of the little case- 
ment window into the greenwood. 

" This is where I come in," he said at last, 
quietly. " As you know my surname — 
which Diana doesn't " 

" Diana does. I told her last night." 

How did you know ? But, of course- 

" Young man, do you suppose I'd let my 
maid-of-all-work go gallivanting in the woods 
with a young man whose name I didn't 
know ? " 

" I give it up. Of course, I do live in 
an inn — still, as I didn't give my own 
name there — being on holiday — so to 
speak " 

The witch tapped her attach6-case. 

" You forget my stock-in-trade." 

" You're a witch, of course, I know that — 
but I don't know what your specialized form 
is — if you could only bring Diana back, or 
find her for me — I won't press about my 

" Anyway," the witch said, abruptly, " the 
name of Richard Bellamy figures largely on 
the list of a certain great hospital of which I 
happen to be almoner — and I have a distinct 
recollection of a certain somewhat embar- 
rassed and pink-faced young man who came 
before the Board with a proposal and a 
cheque which set the hospital on its legs, 
and " 

" Oh, lor ! " said Richard Bellamy. " That 



Witch of the Woods 

stuff ! " He was really crimson and em- 
barrassed for the first time in the whole of 
his adventure. 

" So when I saw you " 

V When did you see me ? " 

" Coming up out of the well. Your watch 
was slow that day, or my train early." . 

" The dlnouement, is complete. I'm at 
your mercy. But why tell Diana ? " 

" That you are one of the richest men in 
England ? Well, I didn't know it would 
send her flying away in the middle of the 
night, I admit— -but otherwise " 

" But where has she gone ? You must 

" I told you I don't know — but I expect 
she went flying back to her uncle on the 
broomstick — to marry the first young man 
without any money who'll ask her." 

Richard rose. 

" Where's uncle ? " was all he said. 

The witch laughed. 

" Do you want to marry her yourself ? " 

" Haven't I been telling you so for the 
last hour ? " 

" True, of course you have. But have 
patience. Uncles hate being disturbed at 
dinner — besides " 

Suddenly a low sweet whistling call came 
out of the woods, through the stillness of 
the twilight. 

"I thought so — Diana would be sure to 
come back — it's Friday night and I haven't 
paid her wages-r-also she never could stand 
uncle for more than a day — and she'll think 
you've gone by now." 

The sweet low whistle came again. 

Richard went determinedly to the door. 

" Bless you, Witch ! " was aU he said. 

The witch chuckled as he strode down her 
garden path and through the gate. 

" Quite cleverly stage-managed, I think," 
she said, as she cut a few thin slices of the 
ham, and put the rest away deliberately in 
the larder. 

HE met Diana just on the spot where 
first he had seen her sweeping the 
path through the woods. For a 
moment she stood quite still, in that way 
of hers, as though she hardly saw him. Then 
she came slowly and pleasantly forward, very 
self-possessed and cool. 

" Good evening, Richard. Might I ask 
what you are doing here so late ? " 

" Nonsense ! " said he, for he felt that it 
was now or never. " Why did you run 
away ? " 

" I fail to understand," she said, Diana- 
esque as ever. " I was engaged to " 

" Diana," he cried, in a fever all of a 
sudden, " don't tell me you've done it 
already ! You can't, you know. You 
haven't given the witch her month's notice." 

by t^ 



" What on earth might you be talking 
about ? " she said, coolly. 

" Your engagement. It's preposterous, 
you know it is. I won't allow it — I " 

For the first time he went completely off 
his balance, but, what with the woods and 
the stillness of the evening and the divine 
nearness of this perfect girl, one might 
expect it. 

She gave him suddenly another of those 
direct long looks^ — but this time, suddenly, 
her eyes fell. There was something so much 
more potent in his. 

" I — I want my supper," she murmured, 
and tried to move on up the little path. But 
he seized both her hands. 

" You can't. Tell me it isn't true. You 
haven't gone and got engaged to a blighter 
who is just after your money ? " 

41 I haven't got any money. I was going 
to say that I was engaged to dine with my 

" Thank God ! " He regained his balance 
suddenly. " Have you quarrelled with uncle, 
again ? " 

" Yes," she said, wearily. " You have, I 
gather, been talking to the witch ? " 

" For hours and hours/' he said. " Ever 
since ten o'clock this morning — no, I mean 
six o'clock to-night — but anyway I've been 
waiting for you, nearly off my head, and I — 
well, let's sit down and talk about it." 

He still bad her hands, and almost absent- 
mindedly she forgot to withdraw them. So un- 
resistingly she sat on the gnarled root of the 
same tree, but this time he sat much closer, 
and there was no intervening broom-stick. 

Presently he put his disengaged hand in 
his pocket and brought out two shillings, a 
sixpence, and twopence-halfpenny, and laid 
them at her feet. 

" Diana — will you marry me ? " he said, 
very softly. " I think I have enough to keep 
the wolf from the door, without any uncles 
and heirships or anything." 

" I know," she said ; " that's why " 

" You ran away ? You are very illogical." 

" Well, I thought I would rather marry 
someone who just wanted mv money — than — 
than " 

" Say it." 

" I will not. Than have people think / 
ran after anyone for his." 

" You arc still illogical, for you have 
come back — and, woman-like, you haven't 
answered my question." 

" I want my supper," but the cool voice 
was distinctly tremulous. 

" Will you marry me ? " 

" Not before supper." 

" No, no — the ham is perfectly delicious — 
but afterwards — any time — this year — next 
year — some time." 

" Not never, I think," she just said. 


Stella Callaghan 


Diana — will you marry me?* he said, very softly, *I think I have enough to keep 

ihe wolf from the door.' " 

The deep shadows of the wood drew round 
them and night Ml unheeded. 

In the cottage above the witch tit her 

by LiOOglC 

lamp, and then philosophically, and still 
chuckling to herself, ale the thin slices of 
ham that sh^ had cut for Diana, 
Original from 



^should enter a world of teirifijimj splendour at sunset 

Latimer cJ . Wilson 

IF the human eye should suddenly acquire 
the power of a telescope, so that people 
could see everything magnified hun- 
dreds of times , what a strange sunset 
would end the day ! As the dusk turned 
into the darkness of night a pale light would 
flood the cerulescent sky, and the most 
remarkable of sights would be witnessed. 
Crowds would gather wherever an open view 
of the horizon could be obtained. Beyond 
the sky-line would come a gigantic disc, so 
strange and mysterious that at first no one 
would recognize it as the moon. 

Stupendous and terrifying, yet majestic 
in the lights and shadows of the weird 
scenery, is the moon. If people could see 

by LiOOgle 

the earth's satellite with the naked eye as 
even a moderate-sized telescope shows it, 
the strange beauty of As tart e wouJd arouse 
mankind to its highest pitch of excitement, 
and every hill-top would swarm with people 
who had come to witness the moon rise* 

Magnified a hundred or more diameters, 
the moon would fill the sky with its mountain- 
pinnacles and crater- Avails hanging threaten- 
ingly downward toward the earth. Men 
would distrust the power of gravity to hold 
such a mass of heavy material above their 
heads. The features of the familiar " moon 
man M would be transformed into arid plains 
pitted with black holes. Curious serpentine 
valleys, filled with shadows or brilliantly 


Latimer J, Wilson 


flashing the fire of sunshine ; phantom 
peaks of mountains protruding from pits of 
bottomless night; c rater- floors marked with 
fantastic shadows — the eye as a telescope 
would disclose all these when we looked 
at the gibbous or the half of the crescent 
moon ! 

One normally thinks of the rising moon 
as a disc that is much smaller than a man 
of average height, But if a man should be 
seen projected against the disc of the moon 
when he stands a mile from the observer, he 
would appear only about one- tenth of the 
diameter of the lunar disc, and he would be 
scarcely visible to the naked eye — unless it 
possessed the power of a telescope. If he 
stood closer he would be proportionately 
larger, and if he were farther away he would 
be vastly smaller, in proportion to the huge 
hemisphere of the 
earth's satellite, 
To see the wonders 
of the heavens and 
to include the 
familiar features 
of the land sc ape > 
the observer 
would have to 
occupy a position 
that commanded 
a perfectly clear . 
view. Otherwise 
near - by objects 
would intrude 
their magnified 
size upon the 

Having wit- 
nessed the moon 
rise and pass 
serenely across the 
heavens; the 
crowds would now 
behold a spectacle 
more fantastic 
than imagination 
has ever con- 
ceived. Everyone 
could now see the 
splendour of 
Saturn, the ring- 
bound planet 
which before had 
been visible 
merely as a point 
of light shining 
steadily among 
the twinkling 
stars. This most 
beautiful of worlds 
comes into the 
sky in all the 
majesty of glit- 
tering moons and 

rings, scintillant in the light of the far- 
away sun. Says Omar : — 

From Earth's centre through the Seventh Gate 
I rose, and on the Throne of Saturn sate* 

Yet the author of the ' ( Rubaiyat " never saw 
the ring of Saturn as the telescope reveals it* 

It V&nuhci &* You Draw Near. 

At a distance of nearly eight hundred 
million miles from the earth, the planet 
is a conspicuous object softly shining in 
the darkness of the night. But if one 
couid approach close enough, Saturn would 
almost vanish, because its surface — so 
greatly magnified and spread over so great 
an area of the sky — would be far less bright 
to one's eyes than when seen with its light 
concent rated upon a smaller area. 

Rings of dust and meteorite* surround the globe of Saturn. To see 
them without a telescope would be one of the greatest sights permitted 

the eye of man, 1 f mm 



If the Eye Were a Telescope 

Saturn's ring is composed of small isolated 
bodies, each separately too insignificant to 
be individually seen from the earth. Meteoric 
dust-clouds, they circle swiftly around the 
equatorial girth of the planet. The bodies 
are evidently more scattered in that portion 
of the ring closest to the ball of Saturn, and 
also in the outer rim of the ring, while a 
broad black gap occurs within the ring 
itself in which there are no visible reflecting 

If one could approach very close to the 
great race-course of the ring, the little masses 
circling around it would be seen as mere 
dots of light, and the effect of the beautiful 
ring would utterly be spoiled. There are 
evidently vast clouds of tenuous dust, 

The magnificent cluster of stars in Hercules* which appears merely as a 

speck of light, hut which to the eye of telescopic power would resemble a 

bur sling rocket. Suns of many colours ere in this swarm. 

Digitized by d< 

scarcely as dense as the ha^e of spring, 
which sweep back and forth across the rings 
as the forces of gravity and light-pressure 
operate. The moons of Saturn cause " tirles " 
in the ring-particles and dust-clouds, pro- 
ducing what might be called gravitational 
waves, grinding together the denser masses, 
and passing in undulating motion throughout 
the plane of the ring. 

Stars thai Swarm by Thoutmdi. 

In certain parts of the heavens can be 
seen, on a dark, clear night, a mere hazy 
patch of luminosity, too faint to attract 
attention. If the eye were a telescope a 
marvellous transformation would occur when 
the observer glanced at one of these spots. 

Instead of the in- 
significant wisp of 
light, scarcely 
visible, would be 
seen a magnificent 
globular cluster of 
stars ! 

Hidden in the 
vast distance of 
space, these 
curious balls of 
suns are to be 
found. LiteraJl / 
thousands of stars 
are congregated 
in these mys- 
terious swarms, 
and many of the 
individual mem- 
bers are variable 
in their light. 
They become al- 
ternately bright or 
faint in the course 
of only a few 
hours, flashing 
like lazy fireflies in 
a summer night. 
If the eye pos- 
sessed the power 
to disclose these 
amazingly beau- 
tiful objects, and 
people could see 
them associated 
with the land- 
scape near the 
horizon, men 
would c r o v; d 
every hill to wit- 
ness the scene. 
A count of the 
exceedin gly f ai n t 
members of the 
sun-swarm might 
raise the tot±J 
number in some 


Latimer J, Wilson 


From three to five times larger than the normal disc of the full moon, Mars, with its gleaming 
snow-caps, would be astounding if we could see it like this with the naked eye. 

of these clusters to fifty thousand stars, the 
brightest streaming from the centre in curious 
spiral arms, It is estimated that the light 
of one of these clusters is at least thirty-seven 
thousand years, travelling one hundred and 
eighty -six thousand miles a second , on its 
way earthward. 

Like Rocket* Bunting in Air. 

Magnified a hundred or more times, the 
globular cluster becomes a truly impressive 
spectacle. Associated with the familiar land- 
marks on the distant horizon, and magnified 
many times, the great star-ball, which 
actually occupies an area in the sky scarcely 
one^sixteenth of the apparent space occupied 
by the full moon, would drop below the 
horizon like the myriad sparks from a huge 
bursting rocket, astounding the spectators 
by its magnificence. " Can that mere speck 
of wispy light be that which I now behold ? " 
would ask the spectator, comparing this tele- 
scopic object with its normal naked-eye view; 

Turning toward another point of the 
horizon, a ball of light, a bright disc three or 

Digitized by G< 

five times larger than the normal apparent 
size of the familiar fair lunar orb, could be 
seen. Shining hke a star of dazzling beauty 
w T ould be a curious white spot attached to 
the edge of the disc. It is the distinguishing 
feature of the most -talked -of planet, the 
earth's older neighbour in space, Mars, The 
white spot marks the polar snow of the 

With the passage of time men would 
become so accustomed to what the tele- 
scopic power of their vision disclosed that 
they would no doubt cease to marvel at 
what they saw. The magnified grandeur of 
the universe would become commonplace, 
but there would remain a wide and un- 
diminished interest in the ever-changing 
phenomena of Mars. The snow-caps, melting 
in the sunshine of the Martian summer, or 
forming in whiteness during the winter, 
would ever attract attention. The delicate 
tints flashing like an opal in the sunlight, 
the sweep of seasons showing across the vast 
gap of millions of miles, would always make 
Stars a subject for newspaper publicity. 



If the Eye Were a Telescope 

How the eye of telescopic power would see the gigantic sun. It would be too dazzling 
to view without a shade-glass. The observer's distance from the bridge would make it sms.ll 

enough to be included in the scene. 

Enjoying the Martian Scenery. 

If, without a telescope , observers could 
look at Mars and see its yellow deserts, its 
arras of blue-green forests and fields, its 
drifting clouds, and its regions of frost, if 
they could watch the strange shapes of the 
planet's markings as rotation brings them 
across the disc, the spectators would find 
such fascination in the views that people 
would speculate upon how to discover a 
means of finding out what manner of life 
prevailed there. The growth and decay of 
the remarkable streaks called " canals," 
thought to be projects of engineering skill 
producing an abundance of vegetation by 
irrigating the desert regions of Mars, would 
be a fertile subject for newspaper controversy. 

Bridge* of Flame at Sunset. 
How strange would be the sunset I The 
enlarged sun, extended over a greater portion 

Digitized by bOOQ IG 

of the sky t would be less bright, area for 
area, than when concentrated in a smaller 
disc. But one would still have to use a 
shade-glass to look directly at it. Sun- 
spots, which are sometimes visible to the 
unaided eye, now could be seen as great 
fantastic shapes of darkness strung across 
the sun's bright disc. 

Legend gives the buffalo's eye the power 
of magnification. But if the human eye 
took on the power of even a small telescope, 
to include landmarks such as the Tower 
Bridge in the field of view, the observer 
would have to stand many miles away. 
Otherwise the bridge itself would eclipse the 
setting sun. 

Man would view the sun, the moon, the star- 
clusters, and the planets magnified one hun- 
dred, four hundred, or one thousand times 
their naked-eye size. A new heaven and a 
new earth would bt crated for human sight, 




Washy makes his presence Mi 




THE lobby of the Cosmopolis Hotel 
was a favourite stamping- ground of 
Mr, Daniel Brewster, its proprietor. 
He liked to wander about there, 
keeping a paternal eye on things, rather in 
the manner of the Jolly Inn- Keeper (herein* 
after to be referred to as Mine Host) of the 
old-fashioned novel. Customers who, hurry- 
ing iiV to dinner, tripped over Mr. Brewster, 
were apt to mistake him for It he hotel' 
detective^fqr his eye was keen and his 
aspect a trifle austere— but nevertheless he 
was being as jolly an inn- keeper as he knew 
how. His presence in the lobby supplied 
a personal touch to the Cosmopolis which 
other New York hotels lacked, and it un- 
deniably made the girl at the book-stall 
extraordinarily civil to her clients, which was 
all to the good. 

Most of the time Mr, Brewster stood in 
one spot and just looked thoughtful ; but 
now and again he would wander to the 
marble slab behind which he kept the desk- 
clerk and run his eye over the register, to see 
who had booked rooms — like a child examin- 
ing the stocking on Christ mis morning to 
ascertain what Santa Claus had brought him. 

As a rule, Mr, Brewster concluded this 
performance by shoving the book back 
across the marble slab and resuming his 
meditations* But one night in the early 
spring he varied this procedure by starting 
rather violently, turning purple, and uttering 
an exclamation which was manifestly an 
exclamation of chagrin. Returned abruptly 
and cannoned into his son-in-law, Archie 
M off am, who, in company with Lucille, his 
wife, happened to be crossing the lobby at 
the moment on his way to dine in their 

Copyright, i 9 zo, h y 

Mr, Brewster apologized gruffly ; then, 
recognising his victim, seemed to regret 
having done so, 

" Oh, it's you I , Why can't you look 
where you're going ? * J he demanded. He 
had suffered much from his son-in-law. 

ih Frightfully sorry/' said Archie, amiably, 
' + Never thought you were going to fox-trot 
backwards all over the fairway/* 

You. mustn't bully Archie/* said Lucille, 
severely , attaching herself to her lather's 
back hair and giving it a punitive tug, 
" because he s an angel, and 1 love him, and 
you must learn to love him, too/' 

" Give you lessons at a reasonable rate/' 
murmured Archie. 

Mr. Brewster regarded his young relative 
with a lowering eye. 

What's the matter, father darling ? " 
asked Lucille. You seem upset/' 

1 am upset i r> Mr, Brewster snorted, 
H Some people have got a nerve t " He 
glowered forbiddingly at an inoffensive 
young man in a light overcoat who had ju^t 
entered, and the young man, though his 
cons:ienee was quite clear and Mr t Brewster 
an entire stranger to him, stopped dead, 
blushed, and went out again — to dine else- 
where. " n Some people have got the nerve 
of an army mule ! " 

' Why, what's happened ? " 
Those darned McCalls have registered 
here ! " 

" No! hJ 
Bit beyond me, this/' said Archie, 
insinuating himself into the conversation. 
' J Deep waters and what not ! Who are the 
McCalls ? " 

'* Some people father dislikes/ 1 said Lucille, 
" And they've chosen his hotel to stop at. 

R G. Wodebouse. 



Washy Makes His Presence Felt 

But, father dear, you mustn't mind. It's 
really a compliment. They've come because 
they know it's the best hotel in New York." 

" Absolutely I " said Archie. " Good ac- 
commodation for man and beast ! All the 
comforts of home ! Look on the bright side, 
old bean. No good getting the wind up. 
Cheerio, old companion ! " 

" Don't call me old companion I " 

11 Eh, what ? Oh, right-ho ! " 

Lucille steered her husband out of the 
danger zone, and they entered the lift. 

" Poor father ! " she said, as they went 
to their suite, " it's a shame. They must 
have done it to annoy him. This man 
McCall has a place next to some property 
father bought in Westchester, and he's 
bringing a law-suit against father about a 
bit of land which he claims belongs to him. 
He might have had the tact to go to another 
hotel. But, after all, I don't suppose it 
was the poor little fellow's fault. He does 
whatever his wife tells him to." 

" We all do that," said Archie the married 

Lucille eyed him fondly. 

" Isn't it a shame, precious, that all 
husbands haven't nice wives like me ? " 

" When I think of you, by Jove," said 
Archie, fervently, " I want to babble, 
absolutely babble ! The more I think of 
you," he went on, following up a train of 
thought which was coastantly with him, 
" the more I wonder how you can have a 
father like — I mean to say, what I mean to 
say is, I wish I had known your mother : 
she must have been frightfully attractive." 

" You mustn't say horrid things about 
father. One of these days you and father 
will be the greatest friends. He has only 
got to understand you." 

" I'm open for being understood any time 
he cares to take a stab at it." 

" You mustn't mind his being cross just 
now. It was enough to upset him, poor 
dear. Oh, I was telling you about the 
McCalls. Mr. McCall is one of those little, 
meek men, and his wife's one of those big, 
buUving women. It was she who started all 
the trouble with father. Father and Mr. 
McCall were very fond of each other till she 
made him begin the suit. I feel sure she 
made him come to this hotel just to annoy 
father. Still, they've probably taken the 
most expensive suite in the place, which is 

Archie was at the telephone. His mood 
was now one of quiet peace. Of all the 
happenings which went to make up existence 
in New York, he liked best the cosy, tete-a tete 
dinners with Lucille in their suite, which, 
owing to their engagements — for Lucille was 
a popular girl, with many friends — occurred 
all too seldom. 


" Touching now the question of browsing 
and sluicing," he said. " I'll be getting them 
to send along a waiter." 

M Oh, good gracious ! " 

'• What's the matter ? " 

" I've just remembered. 1 promised faith- 
fully I would go and see Jane Murchison 
to-day. And I clean forgot. I must rush." 

" But, light of my soul, we are at>out to 
eat. Pop round and see her after dinner.' 

" I can't. She's going to a theatre to- 

" Give her the jolly old miss-in-baulk, 
then, for the nonce, and spring round 

" She's sailing for England to-morrow 
morning, early. No, I must go and see 
her now. What a shame ! She's sure to 
make me stop to dinner. I tell you what. 
Order something for me, and, if I'm not 
back in half an hour, start." 

" Jane Murchison," said Archie, " is a 
bally nuisance." 

" Yes. But I've known her since she was 

"If her parents had had any proper 
feeling," said Archie, " they would have 
drowned her long before that." 

He unhooked the receiver, and asked 
despondently to be connected with Room 
Service. He thought bitterly of the exigent 
Jane, whom he recollected dimly as a tall 
female with teeth. He half thought of going 
down to the grill-room on the chance of 
finding a friend there, but the waiter was 
on his way to the room. He decided that 
he might as well stay where he was. 

THE waiter arrived, booked the order, and 
departed. Archie had just completed 
his toilet after a shower-bath when a 
musical clinking without announced the 
advent of the meal. He opened the door. The 
waiter was there with a table congested with 
things under covers, from which escaped a 
savoury and appetizing odour. In spite of his 
depression, Archie's soul perked up a trifle. 

Suddenly he became aware that he was not 
the only person present who was deriving 
enjoyment from the scent of the meal. 
Standing beside the waiter and gazing 
wistfully at the foodstuffs was a long, thin 
boy of about sixteen. He was one of those 
boys who seem all legs and knuckles. He 
had pale red hair, sandy eyelashes, and a 
long neck ; and his eyes, as he removed 
them from the table and raised them to 
Archie's, had a hungry look. He reminded 
Archie of a half-grown, half-starved hound. 

" That smells good ! " said the long boy. 
He inhaled deeply. " Yes, sir," he continued, 
as one whose mind is definitely made up, 
*' that smells good ! " 

Before Archie could reply, the telephone 


P. G. Wodehouse 


bell rang. It was 
Lucille, confirming 
her prophecy that 
the pest Jane would 
insist on her staying 
to dine, 

(i Jane," said 
Archie, into the tele- 
phone, " is a pot of 
poison. The waiter 
is here now, setting 
out a rich banquet, 
and I shall have to 
eat two of every- 
thing by myself," 

He hung up the 
receiver, and, turn- 
ing, met the pale 
eye of the long 
b o y , who had 
propped himself up 
in the doorway. 

M Were you ex- 
pecting somebody 
to dinner ? " asked 
the boy. 

M Why, yes, old 
friend, 1 was." 

•■ I wish " 

11 Yes ? " 

" Oh, nothing," 

The waiter left. 
The long boy 
hitched h i s back 
more firmly against 
the doorpost, and 
returned to his orig- 
inal theme, 

iH That surely does 
smell good I " He 
basked a moment 
in the aroma, 
* Yes r sir I 111 tell 
the world it does ! " 

Archie was not an 
abnormally rapid thinker, but he began at 
this point to get a clearly defined impression 
that this lad, if invited, would waive the 
formalities and consent to join his meal. 
Indeed, the idea Archie got was that, if he 
were not invited pretty soon, he would 
invite himself. 

" Yes/" he agreed. " It doesn't 
bad, what 1 " 

It smells pood / +J said the boy. 
doesn't it 1 Wake me up in the night and 
ask me if it doesn't ! " 

M Poulet en casserole, 1 ' said Archie. 

11 Golly ! '* said the boy, reverently. 

There was a pause. The situation began 
to seem to Archie a trifle difficult. He 
wanted to start his meal, but it began to 
appear that he must either do so under 


the penetrating gaze of his new 

4 That smells good ? * said the long bay, * Yes, air; he continued, 
1 that smells good ! " 

else eject the latter forcibly, The boy 
showed no signs of ever wanting to leave 
the doorway. 

M You've dined, I suppose, what ? ,h said 

** I never dine." 

" What ! " 

" Not really dine, I mean. I only get 
vegetables and nuts and things." 

u Dieting ? JJ 

"Mother is." 

<f I don't absolutely catch the drift, old 
bean," said Archie. The boy sniffed with 
half -closed eyes as a wave of perfume from 
the poulet en casserole floated past him. He 
seemed to be anxious to intercept as much 
of it as possible before it got through the 

"Mother's a food-reformer/* he vouchsafed, 



friend a 

I2 4 

Washy Makes His Presence Felt 

** She lectures on it. She makes pop and 
me live on vegetables and nuts and 

Archie was shocked. It was like listening 
to a tale from the abyss. 

" My dear old chap, you must suffer 
agonies — absolute shooting pains ! " He had 
no hesitation now. Common humanity 
pointed out his course. ' Would you care 
-to join me in a bite now ? " 

" Would I ! " The boy smiled a wan 
smile. " Would I ! Just stop me in the 
street and ask me ! " 

" Come on in, then," said Archie, rightly 
taking this peculiar phrase for a formal 
acceptance. " And close the door. The 
fatted calf is getting cold." 

Archie was not a man with a wide visiting- 
list among people with families, and it was 
so long since he had seen a growing boy in 
action at the table that he had forgotten 
-what Sixteen is capable .of doing with a 
knife and fork, when it really squares its 
elbows, takes a deep breath, and gets going. 
The spectacle which he witnessed was 
-consequently at first a little unnerving. The 
long boy's idea of trifling with a meal 
appeared to be to swallow it whole and reach 
out for more. He ate like a starving 
Esquimaux. Archie, in the time he had 
spent in the trenches making the world 
safe for the working-man to strike in, had 
occasionally been quite peckish, but he 
sat dazed before this majestic hunger. This 
was real eating. 

There was little conversation. The grow- 
ing boy evidently did not believe in table- 
talk when he could use his mouth for more 
practical purposes. It was not until the 
final roll had been devoured to its last 
crumb that the guest found leisure to address 
his host. Then he leaned back with a 
contented sigh. 

" Mother," said the human python, " says 
you ought to chew every mouthful thirty- 
three times. . • - 

" Yes, sir ! Thirty-three times ! " He 
sighed again. " I haven't ever had a meal 
like that." 

" All right, was it, what ? " 

44 Was it ! Was it ! Call me up on the 
'phone and ask me ! Yes, sir ! Mother's 
tipped off these darned waiters not to serve 
me anything but vegetables and nuts and 
things, darn it ! " 

" The mater seems to have drastic ideas 
about the good old feed-bag. what 1 " 

" I'll say she has 1 Pop hates it as much 
as me, but he's scared to kick. Mother 
says vegetables contain all the proteids 
you want. Mother says, if you eat meat, 
your blood -pressure goes all blooey. Do 
you think it does ? " 

" Mine seems pretty well in the pii 



" She's great on talking," conceded the 
boy. " She's out to-night somewhere, giving 
a lecture on Rational Eating to some ginks. 
I'll have to be slipping up to our suite before 
she gets back." He rose, sluggishly. ' That 
isn't a bit of roll under that napkin, is it ? " 
he asked, anxiously. 

Archie raised the napkin. 

44 No. Nothing of that species." 

" Oh, well I " said the boy, resignedly. 
14 Then I believe I'll be going. Thanks 
very much for the dinner." 

4 * Not a bit, old top. Come again if 
you're ever trickling round in this direc- 

The long boy removed himself slowly, 
loath to leave. At the door he cast an 
affectionate glance back at the table. 

" Some meal ! " he said, devoutly. " Con- 
siderable meal ! " 

Archie lit a cigarette. He felt like a 
Boy Scout who has done his day's Act of 

ON the following morning it chanced that 
Archie needed a fresh supply of to- 
bacco. It was his custom, when this 
happened, to repair to a small shop on Sixth 
Avenue which he had discovered accidentally 
in the course of his rambles about the great 
city. His relations with Jno. Blake, the 
proprietor, were friendly and intimate. The 
discovery that Mr. Blake was English ani 
had, indeed, until a few years back maintained 
an establishment only a dozen doors or so 
from Archie's London club, had served as 
a bond. 

To-day he found Mr. Blake in a depressed 
mood. The tobacconist was a hearty, red- 
faced man, who looked like an English 
sporting publican — the kind of man who 
wears a fawn- coloured top-coat and drives 
to the Derby in a dog-cart ; and usually 
there seemed to be nothing on his mind 
except the vagaries of the weather, concerning 
which he was a great conversationalist. 
But now moodiness had claimed him for 
its own. After a short and melancholy 
" Good morning," he turned to the task 
of measuring out the tobacco in silence. 

Archie's sympathetic nature was per- 

" What's the matter, laddie ? " he in- 
quired. " You would seem to be feeling 
a bit of an onion this bright morning, 
what, yes, no ? I can see it with the naked 

Mr. Blake grunted sorrowfully. 

" I've had a knock, Mr. Moffam." 

" Tell me all, friend of my youth." 

Mr. Blake, with a jerk of his thumb, 
indicated a poster which hung on the wail 
behind the counter. Archie had noticed it 
as he came mgtoelif was designed to attract 


P* G< Wodehouse 


the eye. It was printed in black letters 
on a yellow ground, and ran as follows : — - 










. . ~ FOR 


Archie examined this document gravely. 
It conveyed nothing to him except — what 
he had long suspected — that his sporting- 
looking friend had sporting blood as well 
as that kind of exterior, He expressed a 
kindly hope that the other's Unknown would 
bring home the bacon, 

Mr/ Blake laughed one of those hollow, 
mirthless laughs. 

" There ain't any bloom- 
ing Unknown," he said, 
bitterly* This man had 
plain 1 y su ff ered . l ' Y es ter- 
day, yes but not now/' 
Archie sighed. 
"In the midst of 
life- — Dead ? " he in- 
quired, delicately. 

"As good as," replied 
the stricken tobacconist. 
He cast aside his artificial 

restraint and became voluble. Archie was 
one of those sympathetic souls in whom even 
strangers readily confided their most intimate 
troubles. He was to those in travail of 
spirit very much what cat-nip is to a cat, 
mi It's J ard, sir, it's blooming 'ard ! I'd got 
the event all sewed up in a parcel, and now 
this young feller- me- lad 'as to give me the 
knock. This lad of mine — sort of cousia 
'e is ; comes from London, like you and me 
— 'as always 'ad, ever since he landed m 
this country, a most amazing knack of 
stowing aw T ay grub. 'E'd been a bit underfed 
these last two or three years over in the 
old country, what with food restrictions and 
all, and 'e took to the food over 'ere amazing. 
I 'd 'ave backed 'irn against a ruddy orstridge I 
Orstridge ! I'd 'ave backed 'im against 
'arf-a-dozen or st ridges — -take *em on one 
after the other in the same ring on the same 
evening— and given 'em a handicap, too ! 
'E was a jewel, that boy' I've seen him 
polish off four pounds of steak and mealy 
potatoes and then look round kind of 
wolfish, as much as to ask when dinner was 
going to begin! That's the kind of a lad 
'e was till this very morning, J E would 
have out-swallowed this 'ere Q'Dowd without 
turning a hair, as a relish before 'is tea ! 
I'd got a couple of 'undred dollars on 'im, 
and thought myself lucky to get the odds. 
And now — — " 

Mr. Blake relapsed into a tortured silence. 

" But what's the matter with the blighter ? 
Why can't he go over the top ? Has he 
got indigestion ? M 



*' The long boy's idea of trifling with a ireal 
it whole and reach out (or 

Voi, u,-a 


tppe^red to be to swallow 

Blake laughed 
another of his 
hollow laughs, 
".You couldn't 
give that boy in- 
digestion if you 
fed 'im on safety- 
ra^or blades. Re- 
ligion's more like 
what 'e's got/' 
■ " Religion ? " 

41 Well, you can 
call it that. 
Seems last night, 
instead of goin' 
and resting 'is 
mind at a picture- 
palace like I told 
him to, *6 sneaked 
off to some sort 
of a lecture down 
on Eighth A venue. 
J E said 'e'd seen a 
piece about it in 
the papers, and 
it was about 
Rational Eating, 
and that kind of 



Washy Makes His Presence Felt 

attracted 'im. 'E sort of thought 'e might 
pick up a few hints, like. 'E didn't know what 
rational eating was, but it sounded to 'im as 
if it must be something to do with food, and 
'e didn't want to miss it. 'E came in here just 
now," said Mr. Blake, dully, " and 'e was 
a changed lad ! Scared to death 'e was ! 
Said the way 'e'd been goin' on in the past, 
it was a wonder 'e'd got any stummick left ! 
It was a lady that give the lecture, and this 
boy said it was amazing what she told 'em 
about blood-pressure and things 'e didn't 
even know 'e 'ad. She showed 'em pictures, 
coloured pictures, of what 'appens inside 
the injudicious eater's stummick who doesn't 
chew his food, and it was like a battlefield ! 
'E said 'e would no more think of eatin' a 
lot of pie than 'e would of shootin' 'imself, 
and anyhow eating pie would be a quicker 
death. I reasoned with 'im, Mr. Moffam, 
with tears in my eyes. I asked 'im was he 
goin' to chuck away fame and wealth just 
because a woman who didn't know what she 
was talking about had shown him a lot of 
faked pictures. But there wasn't any doin' 
anything with him. 'E give me the knock 
and 'opped it down the street to buy nuts." 
Mr. Blake moaned. " Two 'undred dollars 
and more gone pop, not to talk of the fifty 
dollars 'e would have won and me to get 
twenty-five of ! " 

Archie took his tobacco and walked pen- 
sively back to the hotel. He was fond of 
Jno. Blake, and grieved for the trouble that 
had come upon him. It was odd, he felt, 
how things seemed to link themselves up 
together. The woman who had delivered 
the fateful lecture to injudicious eaters 
could not be other than the mother of his 
young guest of last night. An uncom- 
fortable woman ! Not content with starving 
her own family 

ARCHIE stopped in his tracks. A pedes- 
k trian, walking behind him, charged into 
his back, but Archie paid no attention. 
He had had one of those sudden, luminous 
ideas which help a man who does not do much 
thinking as a rule to restore his average. He 
stood there for a moment, almost dizzy at 
the brilliance of his thoughts ; then hurried 
on. Napoleon, he mused as he walked, must 
have felt rather like this after thinking up a 
hot one to spring on the ejuemy. 

As if Destiny were suiting her plans to 
his, one of the first persons he saw as he 
entered the lobby of the Cosmopolis was the 
long boy. He was standing at the book- 
stall, reading as much of a morning paper as 
could be read free under the vigilant eyes 
of the presiding girl. Both. he and she were 
observing the unwritten rules which govern 
these affairs — to wit, that ypu may read 
without interference as much as can be read 

without touching the paper. It you touch 
the paper, you lose, and have to buy* 

* Well, well, well ! " said Archie. '* Here 
we are again, what ! " He prodded the boy 
amiably in the lower ribs. " You're just the 
chap 1 was looking for. Got anything on 
for the time being ? " 

The boy said he had no engagements. 

" Then I wa»nt you to stagger round with 
me to a chappie I know on Sixth Avenue. 
It's only a couple of blocks away. I think 
1 can do you a bit of good. Put you on to 
something tolerably ripe, if you know what 
I mean. Trickle along, laddie. You don't 
need a hat." 

They found Mr. Blake brooding over his 
troubles in an empty shop. 

11 Cheer up, old thing ! " said Archie. 
'* The relief expedition has arrived." He 
directed his companion's gaze to the poster. 
" Cast your eye over that. How does that 
strike you ? " 

The long boy scanned the poster. A gleam 
appeared in his rather dull eye. 

" Well ? " 

" Some people have all the luck ! " said 
the long boy, feelingly. 

" Would you like to compete, what ? " 

The boy smiled a sad smile. 

41 Would I ! Would I ! Say t " 

" I know," interrupted Archie. " Wake 
you up in the night and ask you ! I knew I 
could rely on you, old thing," He turned to 
Mr. Blake. " Here's the fellow you've been 
wanting to meet. The finest left-and-right- 
hand eater east of the Rockies ! He'll fight 
the good fight for you." 

Mr. Blake's English training had not been 
wholly overcome by residence in New York. 
He still retained a nice eye for the distinctions 
ol class. 

" But this young gentleman's a young 
gentleman," he urged, doubtfully, yet with 
hope shining in his eye. " He wouldn't do 

" Of course, he would. Don't be ridic, 
old thing." 

" Wouldn't do what ? " asked the boy. 

" Why, save the old homestead by taking 
on the champion. Dashed sad case, between 
ourselves ! This poor egg's nominee has 
given him the raspberry at the eleventh 
hour, and only you can save him. And you 
owe it to him to do something, you know, 
because it was your jolly old mater's lecture 
last night that made the nominee quit. 
You must charge in and take his place. 
Sort of poetic justice, don't you know, 
and what not ! " He turned to Mr. Blake. 
" When is the conflict supposed to 
start ? Two- thirty ? You haven't any 
important engagement for two-thirtv, have 
you ? " 

" No. Mother's lunching at some ladies' 


P. G. Wodehouse 


club, and giving a lecture afterwards. I can 
slip away/' 

Archie patted his head* '" Then leg it 
where glory waits you, old bean ! " 

The long boy was gazing earnestly at the 
poster. It seemed to fascinate him, 
* Pie I " he said in a hushed voice. 

The word was like a battle-cry. 

AT about nine o'clock next morning, in a 
suite at the Hotel Cosmopolis, Mrs, 
Cora Bates McCall, the eminent lecturer 
on Rational Eating, was seated at breakfast 
with her family* Before her sat Mr. McCall, 
a little hunted -looking man, the natural 
peculiarities of whose face were accentuated 
by a pair of glasses of semi-circular shape, 
like half-moons with the horns turned up. 
Behind these, Mr. McCall's eyes pla}'ed a 
perpetual game of peekaboo, now peering 
over them, anon ducking down and hiding 
behind them. He was sipping a cup of 
anti-caffeine. On his right, toying listlessly 
with a plateful of cereal, sat his son, Wash- 
ington, Mrs. McCall herself was eating 
a slice of Health Bread and nut butter. 
For she practised as well as preached the 
doctrines which she had striven for so many 
. years to inculcate in an unthinking populace, 
HeT day always began with a light but 
nutritious breakfast, at which a peculiarly 
uninviting cereal, 
which looked and 
tasted like an old 
straw hat that had 
been run through a 
meat chopper, com- 
peted for first place 
in the dislike of her 
husband and son 
with a more than 
usually offensive 
brand of imitation 
coffee. Mr. McCall 
was inclined to 
think that he 
loathed the imita- 
tion coffee rather 
more than the 
cereal, but Wash- 
ington held strong 
views on the latter 's 
superior ghastliness. 
Both Washington 
and h i s father, 
however, would 
have been fair- 
minded enough to 
admit that it was a 
close thing. 

Mrs. McCall re- 
garded her off- 
spring with grave 

" I am glad to see, Lindsay/' she said 
to her husband, whose eyes sprang dutifully 
over the glass fence as he heard his name, 
11 that Washy has recovered his appetite. 
When he refused his dinner last night, I 
was afraid that he might be sickening for 
something. Especially as he had quite 
a flushed look. You noticed Ins flushed 
look ? !' 

tg He did look flushed ." 

" Very flushed. And his breathing was 
almost stertorous. And, when he said that 
he had no appetite, I am bound to say that 
I was anxious. But he is evidently perfectly 
well this morning. You do feel perfectly 
well this morning, Washy ? " 

The heir of the McCalls looked up from 
his cereal, He was a long, thin boy of 
about sixteen, with pale red hair, sandy 
eyelashes, and a long neck, 

+ Uh-huh," hesaid. 

Mrs, McCall nodded, 

11 Surely now you will agree, Lindsay, 
that a careful and rational diet is what 
a boy needs ? 
Washy's consti- 
tution is superb. qoyF.R-LW $OCIA'- 
He has a remark- f Nfl c j 1 ; 1 1 .1 * k f 1 U C 
able stamina, 

and I attribute I ,;iU\)M() CUHH. 
it entirety to my *-^ u ,,v ^ 



The long boy was gazing earnestly at the poster. * Pie ! ' he said 
in a hushed voice. The woiJ wac like a battle-cry." 




Washy Makes His Presence Felt 

careful supervision of his food. I shudder 
when I think of the growing boys who are 
permitted by irresponsible people to devour 

meat, candy, pie " She broke off. 

" What is the matter, Washy ? " 

It seemed that the habit of shuddering 
at the thought of pie ran in the McCall 
family, for at the mention of the word a 
kind of internal shimmy had convulsed 
Washington's lean frame, and over his face 
there had come an expression that was 
almost one of pain. He had been reaching 
out his hand for a slice of Health Bread, 
but now he withdrew it rather hurriedly 
and sat back breathing hard. 

4 I'm all right," he said, huskily. 

4 Pie/' proceeded Mrs. McCall, in her 
platform voice. She stopped again abruptly. 
* Whatever is the matter, Washington ? 
You are making me nervous." 

" I'm all right." 

Mrs. McCall had lost the thread of her 
remarks. Moreover, having now finished 
her breakfast, she was inclined for a little 
light reading. One of the subjects allied 
to the matter of dietary on which she felt 
deeply was the question of reading at meals. 
She was of the opinion that the strain on 
the eye, coinciding with the strain on the 
digestion, could not fail to give the latter 
the short end of the contest ; and it was 
a rule at her table that the morning paper 
should not even be glanced at till the con- 
clusion of the meal. She said that it was 
upsetting to begin the day by reading the 
paper, and events were to prove that she 
was occasionally right. 

ALL through breakfast the New York 
/\ Chronicle had been lying neatly folded 
beside her plate. She now opened it, 
and, with a remark about looking for the 
report of her yesterday's lecture at the 
Butterfly Club, directed her gaze at the 
front page, on which she hoped that an 
editor with the best interests of the public 
at heart had decided to place her. 

Mr. McCall, jumping up and down behind 
his glasses, scrutinized her face closely as 
she began to read. He always did this on 
these occasions, for none knew better than 
he that his comfort for the day depended 
largely on some unknown reporter whom he 
had never met. If this unseen individual 
had done his work properly and as befitted 
the importance of his subject, Mrs. McCall's 
mood for the next twelve hours would be 
as uniformly sunny as it was possible for 
it to be. But sometimes the fellows scamped 
their job disgracefully ; and once, on a day 
which lived in Mr. McCall's memory, they 
had failed to make a report at all. 

To-day, he noted with relief, all seemed to 
be well. The report actually was on the 

by Google 

front page, an honour rarely accorded to 
his wife's utterances. Moreover, judging 
from the time it took her to read the thing, 
she had evidently been reported at length. 

' Good, my dear ? " he ventured. " Satis- 
factory ? " 

'* Eh ? " Mrs. McCall smiled meditatively. 
" Oh, yes, excellent. They have used my 
photograph, too. Not at all badly repro- 

" Splendid ! " said Mr. McCall. 

Mrs. McCall gave a sharp shriek, and the 
paper fluttered from her hand. 

'My dear!" said Mr. McCall, with 

His wife had recovered the paper, and 
was reading with burning eyes. A bright 
wave of colour had flowed over her masterful 
features. She was breathing as stertorously 
as ever her son Washington had done on 
the previous night. 

11 Washington ! " 

A basilisk glare shot across the table and 
turned the long boy to stone — all except 
his mouth, which opened feebly. 

'• Washington ! Is this true ? " 

Washy closed his mouth, then let it 
slowly open again. 

" My dear ! " Mr. McCall's voice was 
alarmed. " What is it ? " His eyes had 
climbed up over his glasses and remained 
there. " What is the matter ? Is anything 
wrong ? " 

" Wrong ! Read for yourself ! " 

Mr. McCall was completely mystified. He 
could not even formulate a guess at the 
cause of the trouble. That it appeared to 
concern his son Washington seemed to be 
the one solid fact at his disposal, and that 
only made the matter still more puzzling. 
Where, Mr. McCall asked himself, did 
Washington come in ? 

He looked at the paper, and received 
immediate enlightenment. Headlines met 
his eye : — 








There followed a lyrical outburst. So 
uplifted had the reporter evidently felt by 
the importance of his news that he had been 
unable to confine himself to prose : — 

My children, if you fail to shine or triumph 
in your special line ; if, let us say, your hopes 
are bent on some day being President, and 
folks ignore your proper worth, and say you've 
not a chance on earth — Cheer up ! for in 
these stirring days Fame may be won in many 


P. G. Wodehouse 


ways. Consider, when your spirits fall, the 
case of Washington McCall. 

Yes, cast your eye on Washy, please ! He 
looks just like a piece of cheese : he's not a 
brilliant sort of chap : he has a dull and 
vacant map : his eyes are blank, his face is 
red, his ears stick out beside his head. In 
fact, to end these compliments, he would 
be dear at thirty cents. Yet Fame has 
welcomed to her Hall this self-same Washing- 
ton McCall. 

His mother (nie Miss Cora Bates) is one who 
frequently orates upon the proper kind of 
food which every menu should include. With 
eloquence the world she weans from chops 
and steaks and pork and beans. Such horrid 
things she'd like to crush, and make us live 
on milk and mush. But oh 1 the thing that 
makes her sigh is when she sees us eating pie. 
(We heard her lecture last July upon " The 
Nation's Menace — Pie.") Alas, the hit it 
made was small with Master Washington 

For yesterday we took a trip to see the 
great Pie Championship, where men with 
bulging cheeks and eyes consume vast quan- 
tities of pies. A fashionable West Side 
crowd beheld the champion, Spike O'Dowd, 
endeavour to defend his throne against an 
upstart, Blake's Unknown. He wasn't an 
Unknown at all. He was young Washington 

We freely own we'd give a leg if we could 
borrow, steal, or beg the skill old Homer used 
to show. (He wrote the " Iliad," you know.) 
Old Homer swung a wicked pen, but we are 
ordinary men, and cannot even start to 
dream of doing justice to our theme. The 
subject of that great repast is too magnificent 
and vast. We can't describe (or even try) 
the way those rivals wolfed their pie. Enough 
to say that, when for hours each had extended 
all his pow'rs, toward the quiet evenfall 
O'Dowd succumbed to young McCall. 

The champion was a willing lad. He gave 
the public all he had. His was a genuine 
fighting soul. He'd lots of speed and much 
control. No yellow streak did he evince. 
He tackled apple-pie and mince. This was 
the motto on his shield — " O'Dowds may 
burst. They never yield." His eyes began to 
start and roll. He eased his belt another hole. 
Poor fellow ! With a single glance one saw 
that he had not a chance. A python would 
have had to crawl and own defeat from young 

At last, long last, the finish came. His 
features overcast with shame, O'Dowd, who'd 
faltered once or twice, declined to eat another 
slice. He tottered off, and kindly men rallied 
around with oxygen. But Washy, Cora 
Bates's son, seemed disappointed it was done. 
He somehow made those present feel he'd 
barely started on his meal. We asked him, 
" Aren't you feeling bad ? " " Me ! " said 
the lion-hearted lad. " Lead me " — he started 
for the street — " where I can get a bite to 
eat ! " Oh, what a lesson does it teach to 
all of us, that splendid speech ! How better 
can the curtain fall on Master Washington 
McCall ! 

by L^OOgle 

MR. McCALL read this epic through, 
then he looked at his son. He first 
looked at him over his glasses, then 
through his glasses, then over his glasses 
again, then through his glasses once more. 
A curious expression was in his eyes. If 
such a thing had not been so impossible, 
one would have said that his gaze had in 
it something of respect, of admiration, even 
of reverence. 

" But how did they find out your name ? " 
he asked, at length. 

Mrs. McCall exclaimed impatiently. 

" Is thai all you have to say ? " 

" No, no, my dear, of course not, quite 
so. But the point struck me as curious." 

"Wretched boy," cried Mrs. McCall, 
-i were you insane enough to reveal your 
name ? " 

Washington wriggled uneasily. Unable to 
endure the piercing stare of his mother, he 
had withdrawn to the window, and was 
looking out with his back turned. But 
even there he could feel her eyes on the 
back of his neck. 

" I didn't think it 'ud matter," he mumbled. 
" A fellow with tortoiseshell-rimmed specs 
asked me, so I told him. How was I to 
know " 

His stumbling defence was cut short by 
the opening of the door. 

" Hallo-allo-allo I What ho! What ho!" 

Archie was standing in the doorway, 
beaming ingratiatingly on the family. 

The apparition of an entire stranger served 
to divert the lightning of Mrs. McCall 's gaze 
from the unfortunate Washy. Archie, catch- 
ing it between the eyes, blinked and held 
on to the wall. He had begun to regret 
that he had yielded so weakly to Lucille's 
entreaty that he should look in on the McCalls 
and use the magnetism of his personality 
upon them in the hope of inducing them to 
settle the lawsuit. He wished, too, if 
the visit had to be paid that he had post- 
poned it till after lunch, for he was never 
at his strongest in the morning. But Lucille 
had urged him to go now and get it over, 
and here he was. 

" I think," said Mrs. McCall, icily, " that 
you must have mistaken your room." 

Archie rallied his shaken forces. 

11 Oh, no. Rather not. Better introduce 
myself, what ? My name's Moffam, you 
know. . I'm old Brewster's son-in-law, and 
all that sort of rot, if you know what I 
mean.' He gulped and continued. " I've 
come about this jolly old lawsuit, don't 
you know." 

Mr. McCall seemed about to speak, but 
his wife anticipated him. 

" Mr, Brewster's attorneys are in commu- 
nication with- ours. We do not wish to 
discuss the matter " 



Washy Makes His Presence Felt 

Archie took an uninvited seat, eyed the 
Health Bread on the breakfast table for 
a moment with frank curiosity, and resumed 
his discourse. 

" No, but I say, you know ! I'll tell 
you what happened. 1 hate to totter in 
where I'm not wanted and all that, but my 
wife made such a point of it. Rightly or 
wrongly she regards me as a bit of a hound 
in the diplomacy line, and she begged me to 
look you up and see whether we couldn't 
do something about settling the jolly old 
thing. I mean to say, you. know, the old 
bird— old Brewster, you know — is consider- 
ably perturbed about the affair — hates the 
thought of being in a posish where he has 
either got to bite his old pal McCall in the 
gizzard, or be bitten by him — and — well, 
and so forth, don't you know ! How about 
it ? " He broke off. " Great Scot ! I 
say, what ! " 

So engrossed had he been in his appeal 
that he had not observed the presence of 
the pie-eating champion, between whom 
and himself a large potted plant intervened. 
But now Washington, hearing the familiar 
voice, had moved from the window and 
was confronting him with an accusing stare. 

" He made me do it ! " said Washy, with 
the stern joy a sixteen-year-old boy feels 
when he sees somebody on to whose shoulders 
he can shift trouble from his own. " That's 
the fellow who took me to the place ! " 

" What are you talking about, Washing- 
ton ? " 

"I'm telling you ! He got me into the 

" Do you mean this — this " Mrs. 

McCall shuddered. " Are you referring to 
this pie-eating contest ? " 

" You bet 1 am ! " 

" Is this true ? " Mrs. McCall glared 
stonily at Archie. ' Was it you who lured 
my poor boy into that — that " 

41 Oh, absolutely. The fact is, don't you 
know, a dear old pal of mine who runs a 
tobacco shop on Sixth Avenue was rather 
in the soup. He had backed a chappie 
against the champion, and the chappie was 
converted bv one of your lectures and swore 
off pie at the eleventh hour. Dashed hard 
luck on the poor chap, don't you know ! 
And then I got the idea that our little friend 
here was the one to step in and save the 
situash, so I broached the matter to him. 
And I'll tell you one thing," said Archie, 
handsomely, " I don't know what sort of 
a capacity the original chappie had, but 
I'll bet he wasn't in your son's class. Your 
son has to be seen to be believed ! Absolutely ! 
You ought to be proud of him ! " He turned 
in friendly fashion to Washy. " Rummy we 
should meet again like this ! Never dreamed 
I should find you here. And, by Jove, it's 

Digitized by GOOQ I C 

absolutely marvellous how fit you look after 
yesterday. I had a sort of idea you would 
be groaning on a jolly old bed of sickness 
and all that." 

There was a strange gurgling sound in 
the background. It resembled something 
getting up steam. And this, curiously 
enough, is precisely what it was. The thing 
that was getting up steam was Mr. Lindsay 

THE first effect of the Washy revelations 
on Mr. McCall had been merely to stun 
him. It was not until the arrival of 
Archie that he had had leisure to think ; 
but since Archie's entrance he had been 
thinking rapidly and deeply. 

For many years Mr. McCall had been 
in a state of suppressed revolution. He 
had smouldered, but had not dared to 
blaze. But this startling upheaval of his 
fellow-sufferer, Washy, had acted upon him 
like a high explosive. There was a strange 
gleam in his eye, a gleam of determination. 
He was breathing hard. 

" Washy 1 " 

His voice had lost its deprecating mild- 
ness. It rang strong and clear. 

11 Yes, pop ? " 

44 How many pies did you eat yesterday ? " 

Washy considered. 

" A good few." 

" How many ? Twenty ? " 

** More than that. I lost count. A good 

" And you feel as well as ever ? " 

" I feel fine." 

Mr. McCall dropped his glasses. He 
glowered for a moment at the breakfast 
table. His eye took in the Health Bread* 
the imitation coffee-pot, the cereal, the nut 
butter. Then with a swift movement he 
seized the cloth, jerked it forcibly, and 
brought the entire contents rattling and 
crashing to the floor. 

" Lindsav ! " 

Mr. McCall met his wife's eye with quiet 
determination. It was plain that something 
had happened in the hinterland of Mr. 
McCall's soul. 

" Cora," he said, resolutely, " I have come 
to a decision. I've been letting you run 
things your own way a little too long in this 
family. I'm going to assert myself. For 
one thing, I've had all I want of this food.-* 
reform foolery. Look at Washy 1 Yester- 
day that boy seems to have consumed any- 
thing from a couple of hundredweight to 
a ton of pie, and he has thriven on it ! 
Thriven ! I don't want to hurt your 
feelings, Cora, but Washington and I have 
drunk our last cup of anti-caffeine ! If you 
care to go on with the stuff, that's your 
look-out. But Washy and I are through." 


P* G, Wodehouse 


Brewster now, and let's call the thing oft, 
and shake hands on it." 

" Are you mad, Lindsay ? ,f 

It was Cora Bates McCall's last shot. 
Mr. McCall paid no attention to it. He was 
shaking hands with Archie. 

" I consider yon, Mr, Moftam/' he saidj. 

Mr- McCall seized the cloth and brought the entire contents crashing to the floor, * Cora/ 
he ssid, 'I'm going to assert myself, I've had all I want of this food-reform foolery.' " 

He silenced his wife with a masterful gesture, 
and turned to Archie. " And there's another 
thing, I never liked the idea of that law- 
suit, but I let you talk me into it. Now I'm 
going to do thinpfs my way. Mr. Moffam. 
I'm glad you looked in this morning. I'll 
do just what you want. Take me to Dan 

"the most sensible young man I have ever 
met ! " 

Archie blushed modestly* 

" Awfully good of you, old bean," he said. 
" I wonder if you'd mind telling my jolly 
old father-in-law that ? It'll be a bit of 
news for him ! " 


Next month . 

A Room at the Hermitage \" 




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■i.iir i l "[iirE^R5im;niiijrii i iEiii!^iii r^iiriiii mrHWi 




)} Hi/Iton Cleavep 



I'VE a subtle idea/' said Judy, i( that 
Madeline has been severely smitten/' 
From the welter of cushions where 
she lay with her feet upon a chair, 
Judy rose up and pointed a stiffened fore^ 
finger gravely at her mother, 

"Smitten/' said she, " by Cupid's dart; 
and plump in the right spot, too. Believe 
me, a truly terrible thing." 

Her mother merely looked at her through 
tortoiseshell lorgnettes and vouchsafed no 

Judy shook her head from side to side so 
rapidly that one could scarcely have told 
which of the many heads one saw was the 




real one. Then she jumped tip and thrust 
her hands deep into the pockets of her skirt, 
and took a number of very long, slow strides 
across the room like a general on the eve of 

" She will suffer terribly. Ok, how she'll 
su ff cr ! Mad e! ine ' ' 

At once the door was opened and a girl 
stood in the doorway looking round the 
corner in astonishment. 

*' You mean to say you aren't even 
dressed yet ? I suppose you know there's a 
taxi waiting outside ? " 

Judy made a swift and graceful gesture. 
fi My next will be a slight impersonation of 
the Widow Twankey, If you will kindly 
Original from 

Hylton Cleaver 


allow me a few moments to change. Five 
minutes will be enough/' she added, cheer- 
fully. " Meanwhile, since you've ordered a 
taxi, by all means go out and sit in it." 

" And in any case," she told herself as an 
afterthought, "it's a very bad thing to be 
at a dance too early when a man is going to 
be there especially to meet you." 

Judy vanished upstairs, several at a time, 
slid along the passage, and in at a bedroom 
door, then moved to the wall and pressed a 
push-bell with every finger of her hand in 
turn, as if she were playing a scale, and 
whilst she waited she offered the room at 
large a slow, engaging smile, and to herself 
she said : " Simon, old man, I wonder if you 
are going to make up your mind to have me 
after all ? " 

From which one may arrive at a remarkable 
conclusion, viz., that the recipient of Cupid's 
dart was not her sister Madeline at all, but 
Judy herself. To one with a guilty con- 
science, anything that diverts attention, 
even if it be only to fasten suspicion upon 
another, is a pretty good thing to say ; 
otherwise the applicant for a loan would 
never explain that he wanted it for a friend. 

SIMON dressed slowly, and with the artistic 
touch of one who is face to face with a 
crisis in his life. 

He was a young man living in dread of 
growing old. 

You must know that Simon had once 
stood watching a Rugby football match 
when ' a man who had formerly been an 
International was playing, and he had heard 
a spectator turn to a friend and say : " That 
man is finished. He's lost his pace. It's( 
the old, old story. Youth will be served." 

Simon went home with the hump. " How 
old am J ? " he questioned. " Twenty-seven. 
Another couple of years and / shall be too old. 
People will talk like that of me. I shall be 
shoved aside". ' Young 'uns will pass me by." 

That Was Simon's obsession. Other people 
have obsessions, and some of them let off 
steam by thumping a tub in the corner of 
the park or strutting behind a band on 
Sunday afternoon, but Simon could not do 
this. He could only create a bogey. Every 
season that passed was a black-edged period 
ruled off the span of his youth. 

Then there had grown a new dread. This 
was the fear of falling in love. The way 
love got hold of a man bewildered him. One 
year a fellow would be rowing in a crew, his" 
whole heart in the game, every spare moment 
that he had devoted to his training ; the 
next he would have crumpled up. He would 
drop swiftly out of sight, and when last 
seen he would be mumbling devotion to a 

Then he would marry and he would never 

L o 

row again or box. " I have taken a wife," 
he would say, M and I cannot come." 
v He only remembered one man who had 
boldly endeavoured to train and to court at 
the same time, and that man had made, a 
miserable failure of both. To fall in love 
was, therefore, to Simon, worse than growing 
old. It got you suddenly and it robbed you 
more. It was bad enough to know that 
after the age of thirty one began, so far as 
sport was concerned, to be slowly drawn 
down into the vortex of senility, but to 
feel that one must go one's way always in 
fear of Love swooping out of the shadows 
and ending things like a guillotine* was 

The man who fears a sickness most is the 
first to take it ; and so Simon fell in love". 
He was twenty-eight when he did it, and he 
stood in his room on the night he found it 
out, with clenched hands lifted before him. 
All the great things that he had meant to 
win before he was past his best moved in a 
panorama before his eyes. The Amateur 
Boxing Championship — a Rugby Interna- 
tional Cap— the Diamonds at Henley. He 
would never achieve these now. He was 
not a natural athlete, but by continual 
trying he had succeeded in making himself 
a thoroughly good one, and his incentive 
was ambition. It had taken him years to 
reach the top of the tree, and now that the 
plums were within his reach, this thing had 
come to pass. 

He was in love, and, worst of all, he liked 

He was in love with Judy. -She was the 
most wonderful girl in the world. 

But in the days that intervened he had 
fought with himself ; on this especial night 
he would meet Judy at a dance, and all the 
time he was dressing he was screwing his 
soul exceedingly like a shirt in the wash and 
wringing it out ; for he had made up his 

SEEING without being seen, Judy watched 
him come across the floor of the ball- 
room, a tall young man, preternaturally 
grave, with wide, sloping shoulders and 
narrow hips, and she thought his crisp black 
hair and solemn countenance were really 
very nice to see. - 

" A woman-hater," somebody complained 
behind her. " Scared to death of anybody 
in skirts. Goodness knows why he's come 
to a dance." 

Judy could have told them, but she didn't. 
She stayed in hiding and watched him looking 
round like a young man planning his self- 
defence against marauding vampires, and 
then at last he had seen her, and he came 
slowly across with the firm, determined 
tread of an ogre and a settled frown that 



Man's Peace of Mind 

seemed to say : " Look here, Judy, you know, 
you can't do this with me." 

But, instead, he said, gruffly : " Halloa, 
I've been looking for you." 

Judy accepted this information with 
appropriate surprise, and then he stood for 
a little while looking round him gloomily, 
until at last he constrained himself to emit 
a short cough. 

'" Well, I've come to this dance," he 
announced, " but the only thing I know is 
the polka. Would that be allowed ? " 

" I dare say it would," said Judy. " If 
you could put a bit of dash into it they might 
mistake it for something modern." 

That was how the evening began, and 
always afterwards he was waiting for his 
chance to speak, because he was going to 
set himself right in her eyes, and there was 
a tremendous deal he would have to say. 

At last he managed to take her away. 
He sat her down and settled himself beside 
her, and then he leaned forward with his 
elbows upon his knees and his chin in his 

"I'd rather like to come to these things 
a bit more," he confided, and his voice was 
both strong and steady, " to learn a bit 
more about people like — like you ; and if I 
were older, you can bet I would. But" — 
he turned to her in real sincerity — " there's 
something I want most awfully to do before 
I get past my best — something I can look 
back on when I'm old. I want to win the 
Diamonds at Henley. I've been in a lot of 
times, and I seem to get nearer every year. 
Last time I was runner-up, and I'm in 
absolute terror of growing old before I can 
win. I don't know why it is, but it's got 
a hold of me that I can't shake off. It 
seems to me that I've only got two more 
precious years of life — of the sort of life 
that's any use, that is — and if I borrow a 
year now I can never pay it back. But if 
I only wait, then I've all the rest, from thirty 
to seventy, to — to get to understand why 
people fall in love — and enjoy it." 

He cleared his throat awkwardly. " I 
v ant to keep a year or so, you see — this one 
year should be enough — for doing something 
that I can remember when I'm old. It's 
heaven to me just to be absolutely fit and 
full of beans, as I am to-day — good for any 
game under the sun. I believe that this is the 
best year I shall ever have, the very highest 
degree of fitness I shall ever reach, and I 
don't want to throw it away in doing some- 
thing that I shall be able to do all my life 
afterwards. I sha'n't feel like this much 
longer. I've seen brothers — I've watched 
chaps from my school. They all go the same 
old way. They're fit and hard enough, but 
they lose their pace. They go a little bit 
stiff, and then the same chance never comes 

again. For all I know, this season may be 
a final flicker before my light goes out." 

He looked at her with a troubled brow. 

" You don't see what I mean," he declared. 
" It isn't the same to you. I'm a fanatic." 

He wished, more than anything else, to 
say : "I want you to wait for me. You're 
the only girl I shall ever want, but I can't 
take you yet. I shall never have youth 
again, but 1 can have you when youth is 

He couldn't say it. It was too prepos- 
terously selfish for anyone to say. 

BUT whilst he was still struggling for 
words, she spoke. 

She was sitting forward in her chair, 
stroking her knees with a single-feather fan, 
and when she turned towards him he was 
struck anew by her own extraordinary 
youthfulness. The clear light of her eyes, 
the fair tint of her cheeks, even each move- 
ment that she made, bespoke her girlhood. 
She gave him an unaffected smile. 

" I know what it means to be young, too — 
riding,— swimming." She paused a moment. 
" I play ice-hockey. But it isn't quite the 
same. A girl grows old so much sooner 
than a man. It's hard for a girl to wait. 
When a man waits — they say he's sensible ; 
but if a girl waits half as long, they say 
that she's on the shelf. Do you know 
that ? " 

He caught her whimsical smile, and: then 
she jumped suddenly to her feet and stood 
looking down at him rather as if he were a 

" That wouldn't worry me personally. I 
don't care much what people say." 

He tried to answer : M I'm not asking you 
to wait. I haven't any right. You must 
go right ahead. Wherever you go men will 
be crazy about you. You must have all 
you want of life whilst you're young. And 
then if I come again later and you haven't 
found anyone special — you may remember." 

He couldn't say a word. 

He sat back in his chair with his chin, 
brown and clean-cut, sunk in the white 
wings of his collar, and his eyes downcast 
and full of a gloom that nothing could 

He wondered if she had any idea at all 
what he wanted to say. She was looking 
away. He began to weaken. Supposing he 
lost her through this inherent stubbornness ? 
Supposing he never did win the Diamonds ? ' 
He would never marry any other girl. He 
would become an old man, crusty and alone. 
And what must she be thinking of him ? 
Folk would have told her what kind of a 
man he was — a woman-hater, a selfish sort 
of a boor. No one had ever wrung these 
secrets out of bin before, anyway. Would 


Hylton Cleaver 


she understand that, however selfish he 
seemed, that was at least a compliment ? 

For a few brief moments she stood before 
him, not now a tomboy, but very delicately 
youthful, and her eyes had fallen and were 
examining her fan, and when she spoke at 
last her voice was very still and small. 

" It's all right. I understand what you 

That was all, but nobody but Judy would 
have ever found the pluck to say it. 

In absolute silence he slowly stood up. 
He waited a moment, looking down at her 
grimly, and then he tried to loosen his 
collar with his finger. He jerked the lapels 
of his coat, and finally he cleared his throat. 

" Shall we have another hop around ? " 
he said, hoarsely. " People seem to like to 
see us." 

She put her arm through his gently, more 
than ever as if he were a rather likeable sort 
of brother ; and that was all. 

They told her the news exactly ten days 

'■ He fell down the steps of a boathouse 
and hit his head. They say he'll get over 
it because he's so tremendously strong, but 
he's lost his memory. They say he can't 
remember anything he's ever done, and 
they're taking him right away from the river 
to rest." 

For a little while Judy took no notice, and 
then it seemed to her that she must do some- 
thing to help herself if only a little ; so she 
went to her mother and said : " I halt 
believe that Madeline's had a nasty knock. 
T think she's all topsy-turvy." 

She hoped, after that, that they wouldn't 
stare at her quite so much. 


SIMON sat gloomily in the corner of a rail- 
way carriage, gazing out of the window. 
He had grown perceptibly older, and his 
brow was wrinkled like that of a man who is 
continually perplexed by things about him. 

His father, who had been watching him 
intently, as if for some sign of recognition, 
leaned forward now that the train was 
really coming to a standstill at last and 
tapped him gently upon the knee. 

" This is Victoria. Don't you remember ?" 

Simon turned to him wearily and the only 
sign he made was one of extreme vexation. 
The practice of continually asking him 
whether he remembered this and whether 
he remembered that — things which, to the 
best of his belief, he had never seen before 
in his life — was taxing him to the limits of 
Ms endurance. He was absolutely bored to 

•' No," he said, savagely; "I don't re- 
member it ! " 

Digitized by ^iQOy IC 

He heard his father heave a little sigh, saw 
him get up and begin to collect their property. 
At last the carriage door was opened and he 
got up and stepped down on to the platform. 
Next moment his father was beside him and 
they were walking towards the barrier to- 
gether. Occasionally he looked about him 
dully. No light of recognition came into 
his eyes at all. He went like a man whose 
every sense is numbed. So through the 
barrier, and then out into the open space 
where other people stood waiting beside 
their luggage and porters were wheeling 
trucks mechanically to and fro. And then, 
with a sudden patter of feet, somebody was 
behind him and a hand had come quickly to 
rest upon his sleeve. 

" Mr. Garrod ! Don't — don't you re- 
member me ? " 

He turned on his heel with a start, and 
stood for a moment, staring. 

He saw Judy waiting tfiere as if in appeal, 
and his hand went slowly up to his hat and 
lifted it. And now the world seemed sud- 
denly to grow quiet about him until only 
Judy and he were left. Her eyes were 
holding his, and for the first time that ever- 
lasting question ' Don't you remember ? " 
had something new in the sound of it. He 
was conscious of his father, standing motion- 
less beside him, and when at last his hand 
touched Simon's arm, Simon shook it off 
vexedly, and moved a little closer to Judy, 
with his eyes still fixed intently on hers. 
Something was happening. A great up- 
heaval was taking place in the recesses of 
his mind. The cobwebs in his memory were 
being brushed away. He must have abso- 
lute quiet. His hand moved up to his brow 
and began to fondle the wrinkles in his fore- 
head. He wanted Judy to speak again, and 
yet he did not know what he wanted her to 
say. But he saw her glance once towards 
the clock and then look up at him again as 
if more urgently in questioning than ever. 
Then she spoke again. 

• - Did you forget — the Diamonds ? " 

Simon's father moved again and took him 
by the arm, but just as before Simon shook 
him away. His eyes were growing wide and 
dilated ; his lips were parting as if he were 
about to speak, but all the time he never 
moved. The whole of his strength was 
concentrated on a stupendous effort to 

For an incalculable space of time he had 
been left alone in a never-ending tunnel, and 
now for the first time a glimmer of light was 
showing itself ahead. All the time he stood 
waiting the light was coming nearer and nearer, 
and he saw now that it was daylight. It 
seemed that he, too, began to move towards 
it on slow, unsteady feet, and finally, all in a 
momeut, he had reached it in a stride and 



Man's Peace of Mind 

was out in the open, conscious now of nothing 
but a, fierce and excruciating headache. 

And now he was holding out both hands 
to Judy and looking at her in amazement. 
His father's face had broken into a gaze of 
incredulous delight and Judy had put her 
hands in his, but he could not smile. He was 
still in a maze of perplexity. There was so 
much to remember. 

" Did you forget the Diamonds ? " she 
said again ; and now he found his voice at 
last. He turned to his father threateningly. 

" What has been happening ? Where have 
I been ? What time is it ? I don't under- 
stand. I was going to row. I was going 
down the steps." 

He gave a sudden gulp that was almost 
one of despair, and before his father could 
answer him, J u( ty had interrupted. 

"Listen," she said ; "I am going away. 
We're leaving for Davos — for the winter 
sports. They're calling me now. The train 
will be starting. Can you remember my 
address ? Hotel Majestic, Davos. Promise 
to write. I shall be coming back in the 
spring. I sha'n't forget." 

She was going from him almost before he 
realized what to do. He sprang forward 
and tried to stop her. His father was holding 
him back and he and Judy were exchanging 
gestures. . Then Judy was waving to him 
with her muff. She had turned and was 
through the barrier, and he had a definite 
belief that when she had turned that sparkle 
in her eyes meant tear-drops. He saw her 
wave once more. She was in the train. 
The train had begun to move. He turned 
towards his father with a look of unutterable 
despair, and his voice was broken with 

" Only a few days ago — I told her. I re- 
member falling. What has been happening ? 
It's summer, isn't it ? Why are you wearing 
a coat ? When's Henley ? " He gripped 
his father's arms in a sudden desperate 

" How old am I ? " 

His father spoke to him quickly. He 
said : — 

1 Be a man. Don't make a scene here. 
People are looking. You're all right. I'll 
tell you about it. Get into a taxi." 

Simon turned as a heart-broken child wilJ 
turn and went towards the kerb. A taxi 
crawled up and he got into it. His father 
sat down beside him and rested his hand 
just as before upon his knee. 

" You remember now ? You remember 
falling ? You hit your head. We had to 
taKe you away. You went for a sea voyage. 
You've not been able to remember anything." 

Simon interrupted wrathfully. 

" But you don't tell me," he beseeched, 
" when Henley is ? How long have I ? " 

" Henley has gone," his father told him 
gently. " You have been ill for nearly a 
year. It is January." 

Simon took it as a man might be expected 
to take a sentence of death. The best year 
Li his life had slipped from him in the dark. 
He had lost life's golden opportunity, and it 
would never come again. 

IN the days that followed, Simon tried! 
hard to decide what to write to Judy, and 

whilst he debated within himself he found 
out this little thing and that. He said, one 
day : " When are the Amateur Boxing 
Championships ? I shall be just in time. 
With a bit of luck I might be able to win." 

His father came towards him and laid 
both hands upon his shoulders, and when 
Simon lifted his eyes to his, he said as gently 
as he could make such firm words sound : — 

" You will never be able to box again. 
Your head's been badly hurt. A heavy 
blow in the next few years might crock you 
for good." 

Simon bowed his head to the truth. And 
when it was thoroughly borne in upon him ha 
said, in a hollow tone : "I suppose there's 
Rugger. The season's half over. The trial 
games will all have been played, but I might 
find a place." 

" You can't play Rugger," his father told 
him. " It would hurt you as much as 
boxing. You must rest for a little while, 
and then in the spring, perhaps, you can 

In the end the letter Simon wrote to Judy 
was a human document. He said : "If I 
could even have played footer I might have 
been able to win some sort of honour that I 
could look back on in after years, but there's 
nothing I can do but scull. Every other 
game they speak of is something I can play 
at any age — golf, tennis. They won't even 
let me dive. But if I let Henley go by this 
year without making an effort, I'd have a 
kind of skeleton in the cupboard all my life. 
I'd always be thinking : ' It might have 
been,' and I'd never be content. By the 
time that you come home I shall be starting 
to train, and it means I must be on the river 
every evening and every Saturday afternoon. 
I wonder if you will think me the most self- 
centred man who ever lived, or if you will 
understand ? " 

Judy came in from ski-ing, to find the 
letter, and she thought she coulc^ understand. 

SIMON trained as never he had trained 
before, for the more he gave himself up 
to the job in hand the less time he had 
for brooding. Life grew too grim to let him 
be happy, as the life of a man weighed down 
by some obsession always does. Over and 
over again he toid hicnLi^lf he had all the rest 


Hylton Cleaver 


iHiiiii!i:iiiiili:'ii!!]iii:ii::!iiiliinii:ii.ii[iii : :iiJn r 


, HiiJHifflPiniiiW'wifiiiiiiiiiiia^iiiiifiT 

Mr. Gairod I Don't — don't you remember me ? " 



Man's Peace of Mind 

of his life in which to do nothing but love, a 
glorious stretch of years tempered by games 
he could play with Judy : golf, ice-hockey. 
He would ride to hounds. But he still clung 
to the one year left him, as if his foothold on 
the heights of youth were slipping, and he 
knew he would ever afterwards be falling 
down hill towards an ultimate old age. It 
was a miserable obsession. Siridbad the 
Sailor could not have been more troubled 
by the old man upon his back. And all 
Simon found to say in self-defence was : 
" I said I'd do it before I was thirty — and I 

Judy came home, and as he could not 
bring himself to see her, she came to see 
him, and watched him occasionally as he 
sculled on summer evenings with a thought- 
ful smile and a pucker in her forehead. 

And Henley came at last. 

IN his first heat Simon resolved to leave no 
room for any mistake. He raced from the 

start, and though he led all the way, he 
would never ease up to save himself for 
further trials to come. He rowed again, 
passed into the semi-final ; and now came 
the greatest race in Simon's memory. 

He knew this would be so when he found 
a gripping excitement taking command of 
him as he waited at the stake-boat for the 
start. He could think of nothing but the 
fear of losing, and when at last the warning 
really came, nerves had made him a man 
whose every sinew was a live wire. For all 
his eager waiting the start took him unex- 
pectedly, and he snatched at the first stroke 
in a land of panic when he found he was late 
away. For a few brief seconds his boat 
rocked stupidly as the water splashed about 
his blades, and he knew he was losing ground. 
Then he collected himself with a grim 
repression, and went after his man. He 
was nearly a length behind, and he had to 
make up that length before he could settle 
down to his normal stroke, and though he 
was used to the Henley course, he was not 
used to mulling the start, and he was out of 
his reckoning. 

For a couple of dozen strokes he kept up 
the highest pressure he knew, and then at 
last he glanced towards the other station 
and saw that he was level with his man, and 
he settled to the perfect swing and rhythm 
which protracted training had made his own, 
driving the blades through with a mechanical 
ease and thrusting home with the legs each 
time he swung, with a steady, continual 
power. He was keeping abreast his man, 
and he picked up courage. His stroke was 
unchanging now, and he knew he could 
keep it so ; but he had left uncounted the 
racing judgment of the other man. No 

sooner had Simon's length and swing begun 
to tell than his rival opened out into a spurt 
of his own. Simon had spurted to make up 
lost distance at the start, and he must 
collect himself before he could spurt again. 
This was the other's chance. He began to 
increase the rate of striking gradually, but 
with perfect judgment. At last he was 
rowing a faster stroke than Simon had ever 
expected so early in the race, and it was 
taking him up. 

Simon glanced towards him once, and it 
was enough. Anxiety seized him anew, and 
he began to answer. He caught up with a 
wonderful effort, rowed a few strokes neck 
and neck, then found himself falling behind 
again. The other had not yet gained enough. 
He was still striking the water at a faster 
rate than Simon, and was moving better. 
Simon lay back and drove with his legs as 
if, though nothing else could help him, 
determination might. For a brief while a 
mood of detachment seized him. He seemed 
alone on the water, and nobody could realize 
how much this race meant to his sense of 
pride. The cheering from the crowded 
punts moored along the booms began to 
grow in intensity. He could make nothing 
of it, but it heartened him, and he glanced 
over again to that other station. His rival 
was nearly a length ahead, and he had settled 
down to a longer stroke. Simon collected 
himself for a further greater effort. He hit 
up the stroke, and began to creep up just as 
before, then whilst he was still not level, the 
other man answered him with a still greater 
spurt of his own. 

Now Simon began to lose his head. Acute 
despair entered his soul like iron. All he 
had sacrificed for the chance of winning the 
Diamonds came back into memory and 
mocked him. He had missed his great 
year. He was past his best.* Old age was 
reaching out to touch his shoulder even as 
he swung to his strokes. Every dog has his 
day. Every man living has one best year 
in life. Simon's had come and gone, and 
fortune had robbed him of it with a stupid 
grin. But he would not accept this verdict. 
He had never yet got the lead throughout 
the race, but he would fight this other man 
for it now. He gritted his teeth and began 
to reach for a greater drive. He was 
swinging well, and his supple arms were 
working easily. All that he lacked was 
speed. He wondered if he were going up. 
A quick glance next moment told him he had 
already gone up. They were rowing neck 
and neck, and he caught one glimpse of 
drying sweat lying in streaks down the 
other's face. The roar of encouragement 
from the bank was doubling ; his head was 
throbbing to the changing tremor of it, and 
he was tryix^g to gauge exactly how far 


Hylton Cleaver 


there was yet to go. His teeth were pressing 
into his underlip, but he did not know that 
his lip was bleeding.- He only knew that 
he had not yet got the nose of his boat 
ahead. But he was spurting still, and he 
held to his pace. He was creeping inch by 
inch to the front. The rhythm of his body- 
work was doing it. Nothing he did through- 
out his strokes could upset the perfect balance 
of his boat, and even now he was not rowing 
as he had used to row. He was not at his 
best. Last year he would have led this 
man all the way. 

He glanced across once more and finally, 
and now he saw what he had to face. The 
other man had one spurt left, and he was 
swinging to it now. Where Simon had gone 
ahead inch by inch, this man was driving 
up foot by foot. Nothing could stop him. 
They were level again. Simon was falling back. 
He felt his head drooping between his 
shoulders, and his arms slowly giving way 
to acute fatigue. He strove with all his 
might to sit up. His head toppled back, 
and he kept it there by sheer resolution. 
His numbed legs were driving at the stretcher 
just as before, but he had lost control of 
them, and they were driving automatically. 
He must find an answering spurt somewhere 
with which to hold this final challenge. It 
was no use. Nothing that he could do 
would stave it off. He was losing sight of 
the other man. He was done. To the end 
he kept swinging and reaching. That was 
all. They gave the verdict as two lengths, 
and the other man fell out of his boat with 
the shock of having won. Simon did 
nothing. He just sat where his shell had 
brought him, with his head between his 
knees and his blades quite motionless upon 
the surface of the water, the picture of a 
man who had tried his uttermost and who 
had failed. 


SIMON stood beside Judy like a disap- 
pointed child whose home-made fire- 
works have been a dismal failure. 

" I'm sorry I led you to think I could win," 
said he. " It makes me look pretty ridicu- 
lous now." 

Judy moved from the edge of the balcony 
towards him, and when she spoke her voice 
was low. 

" You lost because you were stale. Every- 
body says so. You worried into a fever 
about it, and you never rested for a day 
when you wanted to rest." 

She looked up at him now severely. 

" You can't win if you haven't got peace 
of mind." 

He-gazed at her in surprise. She turned 
to lean over the balcony and look down 
thoughtfully on to the river. " You hadn't 
got your mind on the race. All the time you 

were training you wanted something else." 
She drew a deep breath, and then she said 
it. " You wanted me." 

He stood quite motionless beside her, and 
his heart seemed to cease its beating for 
nearly half a minute. 

* I did/' he answered, when he could trust 
himself to speak. " I know I did." 

She nodded her head reflectively, and at 
last she looked up from fingering her neck- 
lace and said : "I'm glad you did lose — in 
a sense. It's helped me make up my mind." 
She nodded her head sententiously. 

" It's all right. You're wide awake, and 
it's true. Somebody's got to do something, 
and you look as though you wanted to try 
again another year. Well, I've waited all 
this time to watch you do something for 
yourself, and now I want you to do some- 
thing for me, and before you do it 1 think 
we might get married." 

Simon began to regain his lost breath 
slowly. He stood looking at her stolidly, 
and then he reached out his hands and took 
hold of hers. She came a little nearer. 

" A man's as old as he feels," she told him, 
" and you need to be* happy before you feel 
young again. You're old because you've 
made yourself old, just as you made yourself 
stale before the race. I never knew anyone 
who wanted looking after quite so badly in 
all my life." 

He began to speak, but she stopped him. 

4i There isn't a day to lose. We must 
have a bit of a holiday — honeymoon, you 
know — and then you're to go into training 
again, and 1 — I'm going to train you." 

He began to stammer inquiries. " Why ? 
But " 

" The Olympic Games," said Judy, by 
way of explanation. * I want you to scull 
for England, and I want you to win — not for 
yourself, but for me t to remember when I'm 
old, and so I'm going to help you." 

" But," said Simon, '* me ? Why, I'm 
beaten — they won't have me — they 
want " 

" The man who beat you was an American, 
and he won. Nobody ran him so closely as 
you. The papers are talking about it to-day, 
and they want you to scull for England — 
just as I do." 

He drew a deep breath, and tilted her face 
up by the chin, peering into it as one might 
who sees visions in a crystal globe. 

" You want me to give up all that time ? " 
said he. " You want me to scull ? " 

" Of course I do," said Judy. * All your 
life you've been like a child in the dark, 
frightened of something that didn't exist. 
You've never once been happy, and now 
you're going to fincl out that these things 
don't depend on how old you are ; they 
depend on your peace of mind." 



Man's Peace of Mind 

, l , W!i , ,| 'iri!|l!! 

; 1 1 ' 1 :■•■■ - t mil 1 11 n 11 iiMiiiinnm | ii i 5 ~==:/r"="-rs " h: rj.iBn.-r.g a r ;\? .:-= rri = 5 i " i :--Bi-hm'.N.i f=tj s i:r-rr" ism 

it isn't the Yank at all. You're wrong. It's Simon, the — the Englishman ! He's leading/' 

Original from 


Hylton Cleaver 

i 4 i 

" But i thought," said Simon, " that 
when a chap married " 

" It depends whom he marries^" said Judy. 
" You're going to marry me." And, just 
as her head came very near to his coat, she 
added : " You could have won the Diamonds 
it you'd married me tirst." 

OUT of a sky of vivid blue the sun shone 
down upon unruffled waters. 

A slight, trim figure in dazzling white 
rose in a punt, like some princess upon her 
royal barge, and stood for a moment shading 
her eyes and looking intently up the clear 
straightness of the course. Somebody called 
her " Judy," but she never turned her head. 

The chatter of voices round about was 
dving into a hush, and the long lanes of 
humanity robed in kaleidoscopic colour 
which bounded the river grew still with 

A man behind Judy turned to speak to a 
woman, and she heard him say : — 

" The final of the sculls— the Englishman 
and the Yank. They say the Yank beat 
him at Henley." 

And then; in a little while, from a mile 
away up the river the clamour of tense 
excitement, suddenly let loose, thundered 
into the -air. ♦ " 

For a moment Judy paled, but her colour 
came gently back again as she settled herself 
as bravely as she could to wait and watch. 
The sun *vas dancing upon that wide blue 
stretch of river, and as far as the eye could 
see the coufse was clear and isolate, until 
• quite suddenly two little specks of white 
had jumped into view upon the surface of 
the water, with a- sparkle of light to either 
side just where the sun was catching the 
turning blades. 

A moment or two went by before the 
watching multitude could tell assuredly that 
those white specks were really moving men, 
but they were growing in size as every 
second passed, and the roar from either bank 
was swelling louder and louder as it spread 
down river. 

A man with binoculars jammed against 
his eyes stood rocking excitedly in a boat 
by Judy's side, and now she heard him 
crying out his news. 

"Who's on this station ? Which is it ? 
The Yank — he's leading. Very well ahead 
— he's rowing long. Other fellow's about 
baked. Can you see ? Look ! What ? 
Coming up ? No— the Yank's got him 
beat. He's rowing fine ! Look at that 

length. He's winning all the way, 1 tell 
you. The Yank's got him cold." 

Judy's hands slowly clenched. The 
figures were growing nearer. She could 
see now the splash of the water each time 
the blades dipped in ; she could tell each 
movement of their bodies as they swung, 
and the yelping of that delirious man behind 
was more than she could stand. 

She turned to him in sudden royal appeal. 

" Let me see, please. Quick I 1 want to 

He passed the glasses to her politely, and 
turned to his friends as it the race were 
over, but Judy had them up now, and focused 
on the race, and all in a moment her voice 
came in husky deliberation . . . slowly, 

" It isn't the Yank at all. You're wrong. 
It's Stmon, the — the Englishman ! He's 
leading. Look for yourself ! " 

She threw him his glasses back and began 
to exult. The thunder of cheers had swelled 
up all around her now, and she joined in with 
the abandon of intense reliet. She shouted 
anything. She knew that he could not hear, 
but she had to shout. Her voice was lost 
in the roar of applause, but she was a part 
of it. 

Then they were alongside. Judy could 
see them clearly. Simon, the nearest, with 
his jaw hard-set and his blue eyes staring 
into space, and his skin tanned brown 
against the white of his vest, and glistening 
in the sun ; and across on the other station 
the lean American opening into a last spurt, 
just such as had won him the race at 

But now Simon had the lead, and he could 
answer. He kept his length and his body- 
swing undisturbed as he passed, but all the 
time he was driving his legs for all he knew 
and keeping his shell ahead. 

Judy gave one great wave of her hand, 
rocked in her boat, swayed backwards, and 
overbalanced on to a pile of cushions. 

The crowd swayed round her on precarious 
craft, but Judy lay where she tumbled, 
trapped between laughter and tears, with 
hands waving joyfully aloft, wondering 
whether she dared to wave her feet. 

" Our man's won ! " she heard a proud 
voice calling, and she turned to look at this 
boastful individual in annoyance. 

" Your man ! " she grumbled under her 
breath. * 4 Bother you — when he was your 
man he lost. It wasn't till he was my man 
that he won." 

Vol. U.-K>. 

^ Google 

e w 

Original from 

1 4 2 



SINCE the conclu 
sion of the war 
permitted a return 
to games, lawn tennis, 
so far as the writer is per- 
sonally concerned, has been 
divided into five distinct periods* 
The first embraced the English 
season of 1919 ; the second con- 
cerned the visit of the Australian 
Army team to Paris last June ; the 
third comprised my trip to America ; 
the fourth period covered the Davis 
Cup matches at home in Australia ; 
while the fifth phase is the season 
now in progress. 

At the invitation of the Editor of 
The Strand Magazine I propose 
to make a few brief comments on 
the strokes, methods, strong and weak 
points, of some of the leading players 
encountered during " this crowded 
hour " of my lawn ■ tennis career. 
Between the April of 1919 and the 
January of 1920 I played the game in 
three different continents against the 
champions and aspiring champions of 
many countries. In my analyses of 
these matches I shall try to explain 
how I attempted — often unsuccess* 
fully— to overcome my various an- 

A large number of these " stars " 
were, of course, competing at Wim- 
bledon in the recent championships, 
and it may therefore be of interest 
to those of my readers who saw them 
*" in action " to hear just how they 
appealed to one who had the good 
fortune to meet them on the court 


of the World 

V-- .-. ,*Wl -v mwvMww 

in divers parts of the 
Without any further 
" knocking-up/ J I will com- 
mence my difficult but con- 
genial task by paying a small 
tribute to R M. ..Davson, of 
Queen's Club, West Kensington, who 
beat me in the Final of the Covered 
Courts Championships last season, 
which was, incidentally, the first tour- 
nament I ever competed in outside 
Australia. I had had several weeks' 
practice on wood before the meeting 
opened, and was prepared for a hard 
game against Davson, but hardly such 

a hollow defeat (three sets to love). 

My plans for playing the ex-holder 

of the covered title looked simple 
enough on paper, viz. : to hold the 
fort at the net on every possible 
occasion. My opponent, I have since 
concluded, no doubt determined to 
make this position untenable. At 
any rate, his passing drives were so 
fast, accurate, and deceptive, and the 
occasional lob so perfectly placed, that 
one was soon in trouble. And I could 
not get out of it, Nevertheless I 
really believe that defeat was a 
blessing in disguise, for later in the 
season one realized that failures 
properly understood often improve 
one's game, I should very much like 
to play P. M. D T again, just for prac- 
tice, but I think I will wait till he is 
a bit older before challenging his 
superiority on wood, 

"Major" Ritchie, at picturesque 
Roehaniptnn, provided me with my 


G. L. Patterson 


next big problem. Fortunately the match was 
played in the fresh air, and the court was hard 
in places, in spite of the rain. This surface 
helped the service more than at Queen's, 
and I was thus enabled to get to the net 
sooner and more often. Consequently one 
could intercept Ritchie's machine-like drives 
and volley or smash for the winning point. 
In the final of this tournament I met 
G. H. Dodd, the South African, and the 
heavy court on that day helped me more 
than my opponent. 

It was at Surbiton in my first grass meeting 
in this country that I encountered your 
great tactician, H. Roper Barrett, and 
p?rhaps readers will pardon me for saying 
that I played what I personally consider 
one of my best games of the season. As 
a matter of fact I won more easily than at 
one time seemed likely, mainly because 
Barrett, by cleverly forcing me so often into 
the corners, led me to try a new stroke. 
This was a cut or chop from deep down 
the right-hand court, either short or half 
court to my opponent's forehand, with 
enough cut on it to make the ball cling to 
the grass. To make this shot I shorten my 
-grip considerably (if the ball is within reach), 
and this naturally facilitates wrist action. 
I have to thank Roper Barrett in a very 
large measure for the discovery of this 
shot as an offensive-defensive stroke. Usually, 
of course, the cut stroke should be avoided 
behind the service line, but closer to the net 
it is very useful for the purpose of putting 
away short returns. 

A few words about my general theory 
of attack will not, perhaps, be out of place 
here. It can be stated in five words — 
Every player has a weakness. Therefore, 
pound away at his weak spot before he 
can discover and pound away at yours. 
Although everyone admits that a player 
plays as well as he is allowed to by his 
opponent, few realize what a really funda- 
mental truth this is. To my mind its impor- 
tance is often overlooked by both players 
and critics — and good ones too. The un- 
seen working of this " law " is the real 
reason, I fancy, for so many apparent losses 
of form just when a player appears to be 
right at his best. 

• Two players defeated me in the Allied 
Armies meeting in Paris, viz., Pat O'Hara 
Wood and Andr6 Gobert. The match with 
my fellow-countryman, to tell the truth, 
was not a very great one — errors were 
frequent. The contest, nevertheless, ran to 
five sets. However, after gaining a lead 
of 3-1 in the final set, I could not " close," 
presumably because O'Hara would not let 

One of the methods by which Gobert 
beat me at this particular meeting was, as 

he told me after the match, by being able 
to tell where I intended to place my service. 
(This differs from anticipation.) This bit of 
information was invaluable, for on my 
return to England I set out to devise 
some method of disguising my intention 
in the service delivery. I am convinced my 
service was more successful in our second 
meeting. He always made his best and most 
valuable shots when they were most needed, 
which is a hard thing to do. I wish one 
had the knack. Service really dominated 
the situation, as it does in most matches 
the classic French player takes part in. 
Another player I met in Paris who left a 
lasting impression on my mind was Mishu, 
of Roumania, nowadays the centre of attrac- 
tion at so many English and Continental 
tournaments. In his collection of weird and 
wonderful strokes this most unorthodox 
player undoubtedly possesses one of the 
best backhand drives I have ever had the 
'" misfortune " to play against — when it is 

At Wimbledon in the memorable Victory 
Championships a long and arduous cam- 
paign, numbering eight singles, to say 
nothing of doubles, resulted in the writer 
achieving that ambition which my father 
had instilled into me some time after we 
started playing the game. My tactics 
against Barrett, T. M. Mavrogordato, and 
S. N. Doust consisted of serving to their 
weaker "half" with variations, and taking 
the net. . Their service I also returned when- 
ever possible to the backhand, once again 
seeking the — to me — magnetic net. I was 
rather lucky, perhaps, to find Andr6 Gobert, 
my opponent in the fifth round, nervy and 
uncertain, while I was, fortunately, just the 
reverse. They tell me it was one of the 
worst matches seen at Wimbledon for years ; 
I can quite believe it. 1 have no hesitation 
in saying that some unhappy line decisions 
were largely responsible for this. 

For a big ordeal like Wimbledon one must 
be fit and ready for all emergencies, and I 
do not mind confessing that I took great 
care to ensure entering the championships 
as fit as possible. In my opinion, it is 
most unwise to risk getting stale by playing 
countless singles at pre- Wimbledon meetings 
such as Beckenham or Queen's. After all, 
half the battle, other things being equal, 
is to be at your best just at the required 
time. To do tliis, training and careful 
planning are absolutely essential; T have 
no doubt whatever that the challenger this 
year worked out his salvation on these lines. . 

M. J. G. Ritchie gave me decidedly the 
hardest game in the championships. On a 
slippery court, following showers, the English 
veteran's returns made great pace off the 
court. His service too, shot much more 



&1R. M. J. G 

My Lawn Tennis "Enemies' 

back more. One seemed, too, to be passing him 
more perhaps than he realised. I tried to profit bv 
the late A, F, Wilding s mistake of 1914, and went 
for the sidelines whenever possible, Moreover, I 
think I studied Brookes's game in practice just a 
wee bit more closely than he studied mine. 

I think that about covers the players I met over 

here during those very 
strenuous days last 
summer. Now for a few 
words about America's 
star performers. I will 
make a start with 
f * Freddie ,J Alexander, 
because as a little boy I 
used to watch him play 
when he visited Aus- 
tralia for the challenge 
round of the Davis Cup 
in 1908, I remember 

than usual, which, no doubt, 
ranged for my discomfort. 

Colonel Kingscote's play in the Final 
disappointed everyone. Maybe, however, 
it was partly the story of a man not 
being allowed to play his own game, I 
knew, for instance, that he did not like a 
high, bounding service on his backhand ; 
anything low he loves. Against his not 
too strong service I found it fairly easy 
to get to the net. To my way of thinking, 
Kingscote is not deliberate enough in his 
play, and in trying to "bustle" ends by 
" bustling " himself. 

In challenging Norman Brookes for the 
world title 1 did not, of course, overlook 
his comparatively weak backhand , and 
also at the same time kept the ball well 
away from that dangerous forehand cross* 
court shot of his, I fancy he followed 
up his service too much, and would 
indeed have been well advised to stay 



G. L, Patterson 


chasing the balls tor 
him at practice cm our 
private court at Mel- 
bourne. At thirty-nine 
R B. Alexander still 
plays a very vigorous 
game and is a great 
sportsman. I avoided 
his hard " topped " 
forehand as much as 
possible. His well- 
placed service is hardly 
so severe as of yore, 
and tt was by attack- 
ing his backhand that 
I managed to win. 

Another tussle with 
W. M. Washburn, 
whom I had previously 
beaten in Paris, again 
went my way because 
of the little extra 
speed which I was able 
to produce at the most 
needed moment. 
Washburn passes well 
on the forehand and 
covers the net well in 
volleying;. His service 
I also found deceptive 



and hard to do very much with. W. M t 
Johnston, the American champion, proved 
just too good for me in the U,S. Champion- 
ships. I started patchily and ultimately 
lost the odd set in five. It was a fluctuating 
contest tn which the play was occasionally 
quite poor, owing, no doubt, to the intense 
excitement which prevailed. In the fourth 
set, when my opponent led by two sets to 
one and four games to one, it was by going 
for the sidelines more often and staying back 
a bit on the service that I overhauled him 
and won 6-4. In the last set lack of con- 
centration at the critical stage of five all and 
40—15 on my service lost me three points — • 
inches out. Just previously I thought I had 
him, but he slipped home, 

W. *J\ Tilden I consider the most versatile 
and audacious of the American players, A 
great hitter, back and fore, high or low. 
And they come off, too. He cuts a lot from 
the back of the court and is a great lobber, 
but somewhat weak against deep balls of 
this variety himself. Master of every stroke 
is Tilden, but not yet the tactician I fancy 
he hopesi'rtgilWfr^^orthodox to a degree 


My Lawn Tennis " Enemies 


weird positions on the court, yet he manages 
to execute some amazing shots. Inclined 
to be nervy. The possessor of a tremendous 
service, W, T. Tilden is altogether a most 
interesting player to watch or play, and with 
no really weak spots. 

Maurice McLaughlin, the Calif ornian, is 
another very interesting personality to 
study. Partly, I think, 
because of the con- 
trast provided by his 
play to-day and that 
of 1 91 3, when he was 
the challenger at Wim- 
bledon. McLoughlin, sad 
to relate, has lost com- 
plete control of that 
fiery service which used 
to frighten everybody, 
and he now delivers slow 
" googlies " which only 
break one way. Other- 
wise his game is as good 
as ever, especially over- 

R, N. Williams I did 
not meet in singles last 
autumn, but from ob- 
servation 1 regard him as 
the most perfect player 
playing, both for style 
and crispness of execu- 
tion. He plays a rising 
ball, using no top spin, 
but just a semblance of 
cut. An erratic tendency 
which often results in the 
missing of easy shots is 
his only weakness. 

C. S. Garland, another 
American who has been 
here this summer, ismuch 
better than he looks; his 
service is hard to deal 
with and his ground 
strokes perfection. He 
also places with delight- 
fid ease and skill. 

I do not think t 
ought to close these few 
reminiscent and critical 
remarks on lawn tennis 
and the men who play 
it without some refer- 
ence to the last chal- 
lenge round for the 
Davis Cup, in which 
I represented the vic- 
torious Australasian 
team against the British 
Isles at Sydney last 


The match with Colonel Kingscote was 
much the same as the one we contested 
at Wimbledon a few months previously, 
except that the third set was a very close 
call for me. My service always got me 
to 'the net, and Kingscote's service was 
again none too strong, which, by taking 
on the rise, half-way between the ser- 
vice line and base line, 
enabled me to get to the 
net, despite the sticky 
court. One usually 
drove down Kingscote's 
backhand line, then 
crossed the other return 
to the same place, and 
up to the net ready to 

Arthur Lowe played 
very well in these 
matches, In form the 
old Oxonian is perhaps 
one of the best of the 
English players. I think 
Lowe is rather under- 
rated in this country. 
Finding considerable 
difficulty in coping with 
his drive I decided to 
MU cut the ball short, get 

my opponent up to the 
net\ and then drive at 
him or toss Over his 
head. If 1 had kept on 
driving in the ordinary 
way I think he would 
have beaten me, 

This visit of the 
British Isles team to 
Australia did an im- 
mense amount of good 
to the game there. The 
sporting spirit which 
prompted them to play 
under the most adverse 
weather conditions for 
the convenience of the 
s pec t a tors was grea t ly 

In conclusion, may I 
take this opportunity of 
thanking the great 
British lawn * tennis 
public for the excel- 
lent reception I have 
received at their hands, 
and to assure them 
that I do not feel 
half so serious on the 
court as they tell me 
my face would seem to 
indicate ? 

•- J 

by Google 

Original from 

t -- 



W.Douglas Newton 


heard from Simms up 
at the Mill that morning, 
and, to use his own expression, his 
temper had sand in it. It was not the 
best moment for his son Ralph to litter 
himself about the office. All the same, 
Ralph materialized. 

Old Man Child pretended not to notice 
he was about, but, as he put it to himself, 
if his eyes could overlook them clothes 
his ears couldn't ; he muttered a ripe word, 
which he pretended arose solely from Simms' 
letter, and looked up. 

41 Hallo, sonny," he said, run out o' 
games to play ? " 

Ralph sat on the edge of the big banker's 
desk and laughed. He didn't flush under 
his father's sly taunt — his father thought, 
cynically, he was the sort o' feller who 
wouldn't touch up under a thing like that — 
and he said : — 

" I ran out of games the moment 1 
—stopped off, isn't it ? from the C.RR. 
Imperial No. 2, Dad." 

" I'm glad you don't call me Pap, or 
Poppa," said Old Man Child, stoically. 
" There's that to be thankful fer, anyhow." 

Again his son laughed, and did not blush 
— laughed not outright and heartily, but in 
the quiet tittering manner he had got at 
his English University. 

" This isn't one of your sunny days, is 
it, Dad ? " 

" Sunnyr-oh, heck," said Old Man Child, 
thinking of Simms' letter. ". No, this is 
a thirty-below day with me — you'll under- 
stand if I sorter freezes you out o' the office, 

The young man, a big young man, a 
too beautiful young man for his father, 
got off the desk at once. 

" Right-o," he said, in his too ..easy and 
cheery way. " Then you haven't any work 
for me ? " 

Perhaps Simms' letter had made Old 
Man Child more bitter than he knew. Cer- 
tainly, as his son spoke, he thought of the 
Mill and felt that if his son had been any- 
thing of the man he himself had been in 
his young days, he'd be just the feller to 

Digitized by LiOOglC 



clear up that mess. And as his 
mind felt that emotion, his eyes 
rested on his son's clothes, those 
beautiful English clothes and 
their creases. 

" You'll be heartbroken to learn as I 
haven't any work," he said, with irony. 
Then, catching his son's eyes, and they were 
steady and candid eyes of a light blue 
that one would call steel-blue in a man of 
grit, he tempered his bitterness by adding, 
" Not work of your kind, anyhow." 

The young man's eyes held him for a 
moment, then the pleasant face broke into 
its inevitable smile. Instead of leaving 
the office of a busy and irritable man, as 
he had tactfully meant to do, Ralph returned 
to the desk. 

" And what work is my kind, do you 
think, Dad ? " he asked. 

As he came up his father saw his sunset - 
tinted vest (the thing Ralph called a waist- 
coat, in his English way) and his pretty 
silk shirt, and his tie that matched every- 
thing he had on, including the socks, and 
his bitterness at the spoiling of a good lad 
by them soft English namby-pamby schools 
blazed up again. He drawled dryly : — 

•' Your sort o' work — oh, President of 
the Golf Talking Federation, with a lady 
stenographer to do the work, or a Travelling 
Sample of the University Manner — som'thin' 
o' that sort o' thing." 

Again Ralph did not blush, as a decent 
man should at the thrust ; he smiled in his 
too amiable way once more, and he said : — 

" Oh, those jobs^com petition must be 
keen for them. There must be a waiting 
hst as long as your arm for plums of that 
sort. Meanwhile, from the tone in your 
voice, I take it you have lesser jobs." 

V Oh, there's real work, sure 'nuff," the 
old man grinned hardly. 

" Work is the word I have been mentioning 
to you for the past week," said Ralph, 
in his man-of-the-world cheerfulness. 

" This is work for men/' said Old Man 
Child, his eyes fixed on those dandy clothes, 
on the sleek, pink, well-washed face of 
his son. Why had he given way to the 
mother when she was alive and sent the 
boy to England for all those good years 


I4 8 

u A Regular Feller 

to spoil and make into a thing like this — 
a Nancy ? 

" And this work for men, is what ? " 
asked Ralph, still taking the matter with 
a good deal of amusement, so that his 
father thought he was being superior, and 
became even more bitter. He picked up 
the letter from Simms, and said, 
with a rasp in his voice : — 

" There'd be, f 'instance, a job 
fer a man, a real man, up at th* 
Mill, I f I had th' real thing about 
I'd put him in place of the half 
a human I've got managing that 
Mill and camp just now. That 
half a human is known as Simms. 
He thinks he's managing for me 
there* He ain't. He's bein' 
managed hisself* A camp full of 
toughs are running the show for 
him — my show. They call their 
selves loggers, They would be 
loggers with a red -meat feller 
over 'em, but now they're wasters. 
Just that. They are wasting time, 
they're wasting wood, they're 
running amok with their work. 
They ain't producing up to con- 
tract, an' what they do produce 
is bad, scamped — flawed wood, 
badly-chosen poles, badly 'fallen* 
trees. That's what is happening 
up at my Mill, because I've got 
half a human being in charge, 
and I can't replace hira with the 
real goods." 

Old Man Child had let himself 
go ; he had recited the whole of 
the facts because he was angry 
and disappointed. He stopped 
and scowled across the disturb- 
ing letter into space, thinking of 
the things he would do to those 
toughs himself if he were only 
younger, if, even now, he could 
only spare the time from the 
many interests he controlled. 
And as he scowled in im- 
potence he was startled to 
hear his son say, still cheerfully, lightly ; — 

" Wouldn't the idea of my going up to 
the Mill to replace that half a human appeal 
to you ? " 

He stared at the youngster, But his 
eyes caught those perfect creases. Ralph 
was talking through his hat. Simply be- 
cause he didn't know anything, because he 
thought that as the son of his father he 
would be bowed and scraped to, he talked 
like that. 

" These loggers are large, rough men," 
he said, satirically, "They hit people. 
That's why Simms is water before 'em. 
They're men, my boy, toughs." 

-1 Is Simms any larger than I am ? " asked 
his son. 

J1 Oh t you're large enough," said his 
father, in disgust. " Only these chaps are 
fighters. Fellers with hard fists, an' quick 
at usin' 'em." 

"Oh, 1 used my fists a little at school 


sonny/ said Old Man Child, ' run out o' games 
and laughed. He didn't flush 

and Oxford myself/' said Ralph, And 
the old man felt sick with him. 

" Glove flappin V he snorted, contemp- 
tuously. " This is real painful/' Why 
wouldn't the boy talk sense ? Why wouldn't 
he understand he was in a man's world 
now, not lolling round with his cissy little 
schoolboy chums ? And as he felt this 
the glowering old man bef^an to feel that 
perhaps it wouldn't be a bad thing to send 
the young pup up to such a place as the 
Mill, It would M learn him " something, 
ltd knock the girlish nonsense out of him, 
it would take the crease out of those beau- 
tiful pants (Ralph called era "trousers")* 


W . Douglas Newton 


It might, after all, cure him, make a man 
of him. 

ip All the same/* Ralph was saying in 
his ignorance, " I'm not the delicate flower 
you seem to think I am." 

41 And what do you know about logging ? " 
snapped his father. Really, it might be 

,- An" learning, not as the son of the boss, 
where hands'd fawn on him an' keep things 
from him r but as a hired man." 

" That/' said Ralph, casually, " is quite 

I£ Roughin' it in a shack. Taking the hard 
with the soft, putting up with men who ain't 
been to Oxford University, and 
don't act like it, Being "just a 
low, common hand." 

u I gathered that at first," said 

" H I give you a letter to 
- Simms — no more, he'd take vou 

J That's practical/' said Ralphu 
11 Will you write it now ? M 

And Old Man Child, half in 
anger, half in surprise, wrote it. 


to play? * Ralph aai on the edge of ihe big banker's desk 
undei his father '4 Ay taunt/ ' 

painful, but a spell with those toughs at 
the Mill might do the hid good. H ' Sirnms 
is a rabbit, but he do know about trees 
and timber. You — you ain't learnt any- 
thing worth having, only about Greek and 
H. G. Wells," 

J( There's "that, of course,'* smiled Ralph, 
without showing offence, as a spirited man 
should, "But there's such a thing as learning ; 
why not give me the chance to learn ? " 

" The way men learn logging is from the 
bottom up," 

"That seems sensible," grinned Ralph, 
and that grin drove Old Man Child further 
than he intended, 

ALPH dawned upon Child's 
Mill at an unpropitious 
moment. There was a cer- 
tain liveliness in the air. Simms, 
spurred on by some dynamic con- 
versation over the long-distance 
wire with Old Man Child, had 
been endeavouring to exert his 
authority and bring an end to 
:" the mess " at the Mill. That 
had moved the loggers to sturdy 
anger, and it hadn't improved 
Simms' temper either. He didn't 
feel happier when the boss, who 
had bctm bullying him into things 
he hated doing, sent him along a 
young greenhorn, Ralph Stcggles 
(Ralph and his father had agreed 
tliat it would he better for all 
concerned if his identity was com* 
pletely suppressed), who was to be 
gi v en a j ob . Simm s wasn ' t friend ly 
to Old Man Child or anybody he 
sent, and he also had a faint feel- 
ing that this smiling, yet soft-look- 
ing, young man, coming, as he did r 
from the boss, might prove dan-- 
gerous to him. 
He sent Ralph up on the light railway 
to the shacks of the camp, and telephoned 
to the logger in charge that Old Man Child 
had shoved a Nancy looking for a soft job 
upon them. The logger replied that he 
felt competent to provide just the sort of 
job a Nancy needed most. 

When Ralph arrived at the dining- shack, 
just about supper-time, the chief logger 
introduced him, per information in the 
letter to Simms, as a new chum, out from 
England to make his fortune, 

11 Our chief nurse, Sulky Jock, is not with 
us fer a day or two/ 1 he said to Ralph, 
*' He is away or absent by to or for a 



" A Regular Feller 


vacation, joy-time, or jagg down at the Metro- 
politan town, or capital city, of Okanagan. 
As he cannot take your young mind in hand, 
1 places you in the tender charge of our 
under-nurse, Husky Bill." 

" Come off that, Foxy," snarled a scowling 
and massive man in the corner. " I'll 
take none o' that from you. An' I'll take 
no greenhorns, neither ; plant him on 
someone soft." 

" All right, Husky," said Foxy, and Ralph 
noted for future use that his name had 
been given him for good purpose, for he 
obviously cringed before the big, scowling 
brute in the corner ; that meant he owed 
his position to low cunning rather than to 
his grit. " All right, Husky, but I can't 
help meself, see. You has the only shack 
with a spare bunk in it. Must bunk him 
somewhere. No other place but your shack, 
see. Can't help meself." 

" Bunk him anywhere you like," snarled 
the big man, with fury. " i don't care if 
you put him with me or not. Only lor 
God's sake don't make a voodville song 
and dance outter it." 

The rest of the evening, before turning 
in, was spent in rather a tense atmosphere. 
The men were obviously » surly and angry. 
Over the astonishing loggers' supper, which 
began with clam-chowder, a delicious soup 
made with cream, though it was served in 
preserved meat cans with the advertisement 
labels still on them, to the inevitable open 
• pies " and fruit jelly and dessert ot fine 
Okanagan peaches, apples, pears, and plums, 
the men kept up a continuous growl over 
their grievances. Ralph gathered that 
Simms had made an effort to ginger things 
up, and the fact that Old Man Child wanted 
them to work hard instead of slack appeared 
to the men to be an unwarrantable attack 
on their honour and their rights. 

" An' what do you think o' this sort o' 
adjectival treatment ? " an angry man 
asked Ralph. 

" Nothing," said Ralph, smiling, and in 
the pause that followed this apparently 
inimical remark, " I sha'n't start thinking 
about it until I've had some experience 
and know whether such treatment is de- 
served, or isn't." 

His remark was greeted with scowls, 
and for the rest of the evening he was left 
to himself to read American magazines. 
Retiring, he followed Husky Bill and two 
other men to the four-bunk shack wnere 
he was to sleep. The men got ready for 
bed without speaking until, abruptly, Husky, 
who had been looking darkly at Ralph all 
the evening, growled out : — 

" So ye've come all the way acrost the 
water ter give us th' benefit o* yer distin- 
guished presence, hey ? Goin' to learn us 

how ter do things in a nice, pretty English 
way, hey ? " 

" Not quite," said Ralph, cheerfully. 
" I've come along to do a little learning 
myself, as well as earning. Though, of 
course, there arc some things you might 
pick up with benefit." 

Big Husky Bill stared at the youngster 
in a pause of surprise, then he said : — 

•' Oh, are there — such as ? " 

" Good manners," said Ralph, with smiling 
calm. There was a very palpable silence 
after that. The two other men in the 
shack turned and stared in pitying wonder 
at this silly young greenhorn who had 
' sassed " Husky Bill. Husky Bill, himself, 
was so taken aback by the suicidal folly 
of the brainless young Englishman, that 
for the moment he was struck dumb. In 
that moment he felt that it would be taking 
advantage of innocence and childhood to 
respond in the usual way to such an imper- 
tinence. He glowered at the fool, and 
merely took his pipe out of his mouth, and 
snarled : — 

" Th' first thing you gotter learn, anyhow, 
is to keep that silly mouth shut, see ? As 
you don't know anythin', I just warns 
yer, the next time you gets English will 
be painful ter yer." 

Ralph continued to smile, a smile that 
stimulated Husky Bill's wrath, but he said 
nothing further and climbed into his bunk. 
In his innocence he, no doubt, thought no 
more of the matter until, going to the dining- 
shack for breakfast next morning, one of 
the other men who bunked with him said 
in a whisper : — 

" Look here, you're a new chum, take? my 
advice. Don't you get fresh with Husky 
Bill, he's an ugly feller." 

" You mean by nature as well as by face ? " 
said Ralph, sweetly. 

The other man glanced at him sourly. 

" That's th' sort of chin stuff you've 
gotter drop if you want ter remain healthy," 
he advised. " Husky Bill is a man-breaker. 
The man-breaker in this outfit, barring only 
Sulky Jock." 

* I'll make a note of it," said Ralph. 

IF he did it must hav6 been a note too 
easily erased from his mind. There was 
a certain freshness in the air between him 
and Husky Bill no later than the middle of 
the forenoon. 

RaLph had been put on the donkey engine. 
The donkey engine stood in the middle of 
the " slashings " — the branches and splinters 
of fallen trees that littered the cleared ground 
of the forest. From the drum of the donkey 
engine a steel rope passed up and through 
a pulley lashed to the top of a very tall 
tree that, chared of branches, was used as 


W. Douglas Newton 


a derrick, fcrom the pulley the steel rope 
went down into the heart of the forest, 
where loggers, among them Husky Bill, 
secured it round the prone trunks the 
cutters had " fallen." 

At the signal from a whistle Ralph 
started the donkey engine, hauling in the 
rope ; and the great logs, two at a time, 
came jerking and writhing out of the woods 
at the end of the cable, the lifting height 
of the tall tree causing them to leap and 
bound over obstacles in an uncannily alive 
fashion. When the logs caught in a bush 
or a tree stump, or when anything untoward 
happened, the whistle sounded again, and 
Ralph stopped the engine until the obstacle, 
or whatever it was, was dealt with. Again, 
when the logs had been brought to the foot 
of the tall tree, a man stationed there 
whistled, and Ralph, reversing the engine, 
let the great trunks drop, to be unshackled 
and hitched to other ropes that hauled 
them up to another part of the clearing, 
where they were loaded on the trucks of 
the light railway. 

As work went it was monotonous but 
simple, and Ralph very quickly picked up 
the few tricks which .made his handling of 
the logs easy. For hours the work went 
smoothly, but towards the middle of the 
forenoon, when all were working a little 
slackly, things began to go wrong. The 
logs continually caught in obstacles, and 
they even slipped out. of the shackling 
and fell iutev awkward positions. These 
mishaps increased as time went on, to a 
general fraying of tempers. 

HUSKY BILL, who had started his day 
in a bad temper, was the man who got 
most out of control. As he had a likely 
butt iij- Ralph, it was this new-comer who 
received his very hearty and bitter blame. It 
was this raspy greenhorn who was the cause 
of all the trouble. It was this swab handling 
his donkey engine so clumsily who was giving 
them all the work. He howled his curses out 
of the woods at Ralph. Why couldn't Ralph 
watch what he was vermilion well doing ? 
What did Ralph mean by handling his "don- 
key" like a hoof -handed clerk ? 

Ralph said nothing at all ; he worked 
his " donkey " and watched the logs and 
the swing of the logs with concentrated 
care. Then, when, in a howl of profanity 
which Husky Bill directed exclusively at 
him, two great logs came down in some way 
when only half across the clearing, he shut 
off steam, hopped down from the donkey, 
and strolled across to the troublesome logs. 
He arrived there before Husky Bill, beside 
himself with rage, got to them, and his 
eyes went over them quickly. 
r " Thought so," he said, to the loggers 

as they came up. " Who put on that 
shackling ? " 

" Who put on that shackling ? " mouthed 
Husky Bill. " Look here, you beat it, you 
half-baked piece o' dough: I've had just 
more'n enough o' you." 

" Oh, you put it on ? " said Ralph, still 
easy and smiling. " I guessed as much." 

" An' if I did ? " snarled Husky Bill, 
drawing towards the young man and looking 
particularly ugly. " An' if I did, what 
then ? " 

" Then you're the man who's been wasting 
all our time," said Ralph. " You're shackling 
these logs anyhow — and, of course, that 
means trouble." 

"Trouble," said Husky. "Oh, it ^ 
mean that, do it ? An' you think I ai. r 
doin' my work proper, me little lily-g* ._ 
greenhorn ? " 

" Not at all; I know you're not doing it 
properly," said Ralph, with his undiminished 
smile. " I know that you're both lazy and 
a slacker, and you're spoiling the work of 
half-a-dozen men because you haven't the 
guts to do a good job yourself." 

Not merely Husky Bill, but all the men 
round, gasped at the smiling — and idiotic — 
folly of the tenderfoot. Husky Bill stared, 
then put down his logging spike solemnly. 

" This must be me morning for spoiling 
things," he snarled ironically. With a quick 
sharp step he was on top of Ralph. 

And then he was sitting heavily in the 
wood-Utter, wondering how accidents came 
to happen. 

He did not quite know what had occurred. 
Those about did not quite know, in fact. 
Husky Bill, who had broken up more real 
men — except Sulky Jock — than anyqne in 
the camp, had jumped on the soft-looking 
greenhorn, his fists swinging, his intention 
slaughterous. The two men had come to- 
gether in a bunch, there had been a move- 
ment, lightning-swift, then Husky Bill had 
curved outward and backward, and had 
come down bump on the scattered floor of 
the clearing. 

And the greenhorn stood there unhurt; still 
wearing his cheery smile. 

Husky Bill rose with a bewildered air.' 
His eyes lighted on the greenhorn, and 
alertness and rage woke in him at once. 

" If you think that slipping on a bit of 

slashings wins a fight " he began, in 

answer to that calm smile. 

" I don't," said Ralph. " I know exactly 
what happened to you — you apparently 
don't. Why argue, friend Husky ? This is 
the time for action." 

Husky Bill jumped again, but this time 
he was more wary. He mixed his dash 
with brains, so he thought. He did not 
merely punch to stun, there was something 



" A Regular Feller 


of a guard in his stance. Ralph slipped 
under the punch p slipped under the guard. 
He was in through the big man's defences 
with an almost contemptuous casualness, 
His two arms flicked in and out, short 
hammer - stroke 
punches, The 
right took 
Husky Bill's 
ribs where they 
curved, and 
wuth a grunt 
Husky hinged 
forward. With 
delightful pre- 
cision the left 
took up the job 
and rose with 
tt_e snap of a 
whip to Husky's 
chin. Husky 
once more knew 
the companion- 
ship of the 

The men 
around were 
too startled to 
shout en- 
one way or the 
other. They 
were too be- 
wildered to 
gather what the 
display meant* 
To them the 
downfall of 
H usky had 
been the result 
of a lucky trick. 
Husky had not 
rid himself of 
thatidea, either. 
He rose to show 
that happy ac- 
cidents do not 
prevent, but 
merely put off, 
the slaughter of 

He came on 
a little more 
elaborately, his 
attitude show- 
ing rugged de- 
tenu i nation to 
end this foolery once and for ail. He 
crouched, covering up, and began to swing 
at Ralph. He swung quite half-a-dozen 
guaranteed man-stunning blows. Ralph 
made very little fuss about them. He 
moved very little — but each of those blows 

tJigilizedoy v3QCWR 

missed. Then choosing his own oppor- 
tunity, he stepped — no, strolled — right 
through Husky's guard, and his left arm 
straightened ' r flick/' Husky went down 
with such force that his body gathered an 

accumulation of 
slashings about 
its shoulders as 
it slid along the 
ground. And he 
lay still. There 
was no help for 
it. That knock- 
out blow had 
been accurately 
and perfectly 

He came to 
one hundred 
and two se- 
conds later, but 
did not feel fit 
to employ his 
feet in their 
legitimate office 
for at least 
thirty minutes 
more. When he 
did feel stout 
enough to walk, 
he rose groggily 
and went across 
the clearing to 
the shacks, He 
had had enough 
for the day, any 
other work after 
that series of 
punches would 
be overtime, if 
not blackleg 

But nobody 
noticed his 
going, or rather, 
everybody no- 
ticed his ab- 
sence. There 
had come a new 
steadiness, a 
new serenity in 
the work. The 
man who had 
warned Ralph 
not to be fresh, 
and whose name 
was Arty, took 
Husky's place in charge of the shackling, 
and from that moment it became apparent 
that the work was being well done. There 
were no more stoppages through botched 
work, and, what is more, the jobs were got 
through much mure quickly, so that the 


* You ain't asking fer a picnic, let me tell you, chum. 
You're walking slap inter trouble/ f 

W. Douglas Newton 


output was doubled. Moreover, the men 
themselves became better-tempered. Slack- 
ing didn't suit these energetic fellows ; they 
lost the discontent which idleness had 
engendered — and usually does engender. 

Altogether it was a very illuminating 
morning for Ralph. He began to see where 
lay the trouble that was disturbing his 
father. Its seed lay in men like, Husky Bill, 
who, slouchers themselves, forced others to 
slack because they were big, dangerous, and 


AFTER the huge and appetizing midday 
meal that the Belgian chef served in the 
shack, Ralph had a chat with the man 
Arty Griffin. He' had been friendly in the 
morning, now he was more than frien^y. 
Ralph found him a quiet and genuine fr\ . , 
and liked him. He found that, bein b a 
true Canadian born, Arty didn't talk about 
"Englishmen"; that slightly contemptuous 
manner was reserved for Husky and his 
sort, who weren't Canadians at all, but only 
emigrants of a few years' standing. In 
addition to liking Arty, Ralph had seen with 
his own eyes that Arty was .a logger of real 
skill. He wanted to t$lk about that, .but 
first Arty said : — _ ." : ' 

" You gave me the shock of .me life when 
you laid Husky out. What th' hell do 
you call that sort of trick ? " 
" What do you call it, chum ? " 
" I'd a called it fighting,, only^—" 
" Well, just! call it fighting now, in spite 
of that ' onijj^,' " said Ralph, cheerfully. 
" Perhaps you mixed . up fighting with 
unskilled scrapping, which it isn't. That 
was the real thing, or a sample of it. In 
England they don't altogether neglect the 
arts of manhood. And that's .enough about 
me. What I want to know about you is, 
why you weren't in charge of that shackling 
from the beginning, instead of Husky, 
who is lazy and hasn't half your skill ? " 

'That's too easy," said Arty. "Item 
one, I can't lay out Foxy as you laid out 
Husky. Item two, I don't care to be a 
partner in his low tricks — Husky and Sulky 
Jock is the experts in both them items." 

" That's the way the wind blows ? " 
said Ralph. Certainly his coming to the 
Mill was educative and valuable. " And 
Simms don't sack Foxy, who is incompetent, 

because ? " 

" Becos Simms is another Foxy, only 
higher up, see." Arty's anger carried him 
away. "They're low trash both of 'em. 
Simms is feathering his nest all right, all 
right ; so's Foxy. They both play into 
each other's hands, and are making pickings 
outter this Mill. I don't mind Old Man 
Child being fooled, that's his funeral, 
though I've heard he's a white 'un. What 

gets my gall is that the rest o' us men has 
to suffer. We gets brutes like Foxy and 
Husky, an' worst o' all, Sulky Jock, put 
over us, snaffling the plums, an' making 
life hell fer us. That's the reason this 
isn't the happy crowd it ought ter be. 
Somethin' ought ter be done." 

11 Quite," * said Ralph, cheerily, " and 
we'll do it." Arty looked at him with both 
friendliness and dismay mingled. He said : — 

" You ain't asking fer a picnic, let me 
tell you, chum. You're walking slap inter 
trouble. Look here, don't monkey with 
Sulky Jock: he ain't the same sort o' goods 
as Husky. He's a big, ugly man-killer. 
Don't you get oh his queer side ; he's real 
dangerous. Husky isn't in the same class 
with him." 

" Oh, well," said Ralph, " I don't believe 
in meeting trouble until it arrives. We'll 
wait until Sulky returns from his vacation 
or jagg." 

AS the men returned to work that after- 
/^ noon Ralph gained another insight into 
the methods of the Mill's management. 
Foxy sidled up to him. Foxy had heard all 
about the downfall of Husky, and meant 
to find out whether this young man, who 
looked as 'though he might develop import- 
ance, .was in ally or a foe. Deliberately 
he sii^gted 'Ralph out when all tne men were 
about. If Ralph was going to be popular, 
then it was best to get him into the Simms- 
Foxy riginie at once. If he was going to 
be unpopular, then the suggestion Foxy 
had to make would speed up that unpopu- 
larity. The suggestion Foxy made was 
that , Ralph, the new-comer, should take 
charge of the men shackling and hauling 
logs in Husky's- place. All the loggers 
stood round," probably angry, but silent 
as they waited for Ralph's answer. 

" When I know as much and have worked 
as long at the job as these chaps here, I'll 
think about it," ^ said Ralph, tartly. I 
• should suggest that you should put somebody 
who knows the work, not a greenhorn like 
me in charge. Oh ! you don't like my 
tone ? Well, if it comes to that, I don't 
like anything about you/' Ralph had seen 
that this was a good chance for him, too, 
and he hadn't minced matters. He de- 
clared war on the Simms-Foxy combination 
right there. Certainly he made Foxy and 
Simms his enemies at once, but Foxy had 
no alternative but to put Arty in charge. 
That was good for the work, even if it hadn't 
pleased the loggers, and made them recog- 
nize that Ralph himself was " white." 
Certainly Ralph was going to be popular 
— but not in the way Foxy and Simms would 
like. Ralph himself recognized the position 
and that night dropped a line to his father. 



"A Regular Feller" 

A wise step, for later, when Simms rang 
up Old Man Child saying that he wanted 
to fire that feller Steggles because he was 
making trouble, he was told bluntly that 
Steggles remained on at the Mill or Old Man 
Child would know the reason why. 

The trouble, of course, came about on the 
return of Sulky Jock. Sulky Jock not 
only returned from his joy-time in a vile 
temper, but he was also informed by his 
crony Simms of the way the greenhorn 
Steggles was upsetting things at the camp, 
and how Sulky Jock's power for idleness 
was being undermined. Sulky Jock was 
not a brilliant thinker, but within his 
limitations he knew that the best way to 
strike terror was to apply his brutal strength 
in swift and smashing action. And he applied 
this plan on the whole, quite brilliantly. 

HE appeared suddenly and unannounced 
in the dining-shack after his talk with 
Simms. He glanced round the room 
with that sullen and ugly rage that gave him 
his nickname, and with a quick movement 
was beside the chair where Ralph sat reading 
a magazine. 

" What's a swab of a greenhorn doin' in my 
pertickler seat ? " he roared. " Git outter it, 
you pup." His huge hands plucked Ralph 
from the chair, and with tremendous strength 
he flung the young man across the shack. 

There was no uproar. The loggers knew 
exactly what was happening. Sulky was 
here to put that greenhorn in his place 
without loss of time. They were sorry for 
the young Englishman, because he had the 
makings of a " regular feller," but facts 
were facts, and had to be faced. Sulky was 
undoubtedly here to break him up. The 
loggers backed against the walls silently, 
pushing the tables and chairs back.. 

Sulky stood, huge and truculent, glaring 
at the fallen man, his hands dropped but 
ready ; not really on the alert, because 
he was confident in his gorilla strength and 
in the fact that his whirlwind assault, 
coupled with his ferocity, had already put 
the fear of death into the soft heart of the 
greenhorn. Ralph lay on the floor for 
thirty seconds staring, apparently with 
astonishment, at Sulky. Then he rose with 
curious slowness, and that manner of rising 
told Sulky that his method had been correct. 
The fight was finished, he'd knocked the 
heart out of the cub. 

And as his heart glowed under that 
thought his head clicked back with such 
force that only the vertebrae seemed to save 
it from falling off his shoulders ; he stag- 
gered backward, a tree-trunk seemed to 
hit him just under his ear, and his big 
body fetched up with such a clump on the 
shack walls that the whole building shook. 

Digitized by G< 

What had happened ? The slowly-rising 
greenhorn had abruptly changed into a 
streak of lightning. He had come across 
the shack in one flash even before he had 
risen fully to his feet, it seemed. Caught 
napping in his moment of self-confidence. 
Sulky had been not only unready but 
practically unaware of the terrific left and 
right that had shaken him to his spine. 
And in any case he had never encountered 
anything equal to the tearing, bewildering, 
tornado-like swiftness of the young green- 

For Ralph was not the man of the Husky 
encounter, not the man of Simms' descrip- 
tion. In that fight with Husky, Ralph 
had been casual, almost indolent ; he had 
walked through Husky's guard with an 
almost languid unconcern. Now he was 
uncnained lightning. His swiftness ana 
power were appalling. There was no play- 
ing at the game of fighting now. He had 
measured the brutal strength of Sulky, 
and was not going to leave anything to 
chance. Sulky was a natural fighting 
animal, if an unskilled one, and as such was 

dangerous. If he got a chance 

Ralph never gave him a chance. Sulky 
heaved himself away from the shack wall, 
and turned with a bellow on Ralph. Ralpn 
was in at once, both fists banging at the 
great head, both fists clip-clopping at the 
great body that had just been indulged to 
excess. And then Ralph was out. He 
was in and out in the swing of Sulky's arm. 
By the time that giant hand had reached 
the end of its stroke, the greenhorn was so 
far out of danger that the loggers let oiit 
a gale of laughter at the .wildness of the 
miss. Their laughter changed to a shout 
as Ralph swept in on his man, and before 
Sulky could recover from his swing had 
jabbed a cruel left on to the exposed jaw. 

From his own momentum, from the 
stinging force of that blow, Sulky went 
down with a crash. He was on his feet 
at once — foolishly, for Ralph was at him 
like a tiger, and a stream of snapping, 
stinging punches from every angle battered 
his face, knocking the spirit out of his ill- 
used body. Sulky, dazed, rocked on his 
feet, tried to guard his face with crooked, 
ill-placed arms. A flush hit on the solar- 
plexus, from which his clothes took the 
knock-out sting, doubled him up. He 
flung out his hands, not to fight, but to 
claw hold of this will-o'-the-wisp who punched 
like a battering-ram. The awful punches 
came, in again, left, left, right, left, right, 
and his battered head kicked sideways with 
the nervelessness of a doll's under the 
swinging smash of each hit. And then he 
committed his last folly — he rushed at 
Ralph. He charged at the greenhorn like 

I u I I I ■_' I I 


W, Douglas Newton 


1 Ralph was al him like a tiger, and a stream of snapping, stinging punches from every angle 
battered his (ace, knocking the spirit out ol his ill-used body 



"A Regular Feller" 

a great bull, his hands anyhow in his anger 
and fear — and Ralph did not run away. 
He charged in, too. His arm went out in 
an awful straight left, and it took Sulky 
on the jaw with terrible impact and timing. 
Sulky disappeared in a wild crash under one 
of the tables, and remained there. As a 
matter of fact, it took him a full five minutes 
to recover consciousness. 

SOMETHING like a minor riot broke out 
then, for all the men had felt the weight 
of Sulky's bullying and showed elation, 
but in the middle of the cheering Foxy 
made a fool of himself. Terrified for his 
position, he rushed at Ralph (who, he 
thought, must be exhausted), yelling : — 

" Look here, I won't have this. Creating 
a disturbance— dangerous element. See here, 
you quit this camp. You hear me. quit: 
you're fired." 

He advanced on Ralph with ready hands, 
and Ralph hit him. He was neither as 
heavy nor as skilled as Husky or Sulky, 
and the punch Ralph landed span him 
along the floor until he fetched up against 
the legs of some of the loggers, who kicked 
him back into the middle of the room ; 
there, after an attempt to rise, and a sudden 
better thinking about that act, he lay scowling 
at Ralph. And Ralph said to him : — 

44 I don't like your ways, and I don't 
like the ways of any of the * rough-house ' 
brutes who do your dirty jobs, and by Gad 
I'm going to change 'em, if I have to break 
up Sulky and Husky and you every day 
of my life. And as for my quitting — you 
go and talk that over with Old Man Child. 
See what he says. And when you've heard 
what he says, come back and argue it out 
with me again — I'll be ready for you." 

It was after this that Simms had his long- 
distance talk with Old Man Child about the 
man Steggles, and got, as he said, " a flea 
in his ear " for his pains. After hearing that 
Steggles was to remain. Foxy, Sulky, and 
Husky decided that they would not. They 
decided it would not be healthy. 


TWO months later Ralph again sat on 
the edge of his father's desk, and he 
was smiling with unaltered cheeriness, 
though he looked browner and harder. Now, 
however, Old Man Child saw the smile with 
a different eye. He was saying, with some- 
thing of a chuckle in his voice : — 

" This Arty Griffin you got me to put 
in place o' Simms when I fired him, also 
thanks to you, writes me the best report 
I have had o' the Mill in years. Everything 
is going along in real proper shape ; he's 
pleased — an' so'm I. He's a real good man. 
But, an' here's the point I want ye to attend 

Diqilized by VjOvJiZlt 

to, he wants to propose a real good man 
as assistant manager. The increased work 
calls for an assistant, as I agree, an' Le 
wishes to put forward the name of a regular 
feller, hard worker, popular with the men, 
an' one who has done even more than he, 
Arty, himself, in getting the Mill an' camp 
into a proper healthy state. The ' regular 
feller ' he proposes is a certaiit Ralph 

" That's like old Arty," Ralph grinned ; 
" but he must have written that report 
before I decided to come away, before I 
told him and the rest who I was." 

"Oh," said Old Man Child, lifting his 
rugged brows. " So you told them who you 
were. And did it make any difference ? " 

" Not the slightest — you see, they're 
- regular fellers,' too, the lot we've got 
there now." 

Old Man Child, who had been bursting 
with curiosity, could contain himself no 

" Look here, son, how did you do it ? 
Oh, I've heard things from this Arty and 
from others. I've heard about Husky and 
that big brute Sulky Jock, an' all that. How 
did you break up them big, rough-house, 
all-fire dangerous men ? " 

" Oh, that — because they were just rough- 
house men, that an' nothing else. I admit 
that if I had ' rough-housed ' with them 
they'd have made very short work of me, 
so I did it scientifically, and they didn't. 
Since you sent me to England to obtain the 
best education money could buy, I bought 
the best scientific advice I could in ' rough- 
house * stuff. I became rather an expert 
over there, because, I suppose, I had a 
natural liking for it. I imagine it's in the 
blood. If what I hear about the early 
days of a certain would-be grumpy Old 
Man " 

" Umm," grunted Old Man Child, trying 
not to chuckle. " We'll leave that at that, 
though I'm not saying that the grumpy old 
feller you refer to didn't have a nateral turn 
or aptertude fer making hay of toughs when 
they were uppish. All the same, son, 
you're good stuff, an' I takes back that 
bitter talk I give you — that talk where I 
hinted or suggested you weren't a real man." 

" The clothes misled you, Dad, and the 
English drawl. It does a lot of people. 
But we're all the same underneath, if we're 
' regular fellers.' And I say, going back 
to that talk, I've got to ask you the same 
thing. I guess I'm through with the Mill 
— have you any work for me ? " 

" Have I any — have I any work fer you ? 
I've got it all fer you ; just pull up that 
chair to the desk. You're going to sit 
down here with me and share the whole 
boiling now, an' now oi* " 






oidnes/ £)crrk 

THE Paris cabaret was, and is becoming 
again, one of the most distinctive 
institutions of the French capital. 
Just before the war there was an 
attempt to establish the cabaret in London. 
One so-called cabaret was started in a cellar 
off Regent Street, and another, under the 
patronage of Mr. Augustus John, in Soho. 
Both were feeble imitations of the genuine 
cabaret, which, to brcnTi with, is a public 
vol :«._„. 

entertainment, and not a private club, and 
which depends for its successful existence 
not on its possibly bizarre decorations, nor 
even (to use a euphemism) on the exceeding 
frankness of the programme, but oa the 
genuine art of its songs and its singers. 

The cabaret is not even Parisian in the 
full sense of the word. It belongs to Mont- 
martre, the Bohemian hili crowned by the 
great church of the Sacrfi Coeur, the people 



The Revival of the Paris Cabaret 

Henri Hattutl 


of which look down, both actually and 
metaphorically, on the rest of the city. It 
was in Montmartre tliat the famous " Chat 
Noir ** was founded thirty years ago and more 
by Kodolphe Sal is. It was in Montmartre 
that the " Chat Noir " found many imitators, 
and where the art of the cabaret flourished 
and developed, producing many a genius, 
the best- known of whom outside Paris is h 
of course, Yvette Gnilbert. It is in Mont- 
martre that the cabaret and the art of the 
cabaret are again to be found, now that the 
war is over and Paris, despite appalling food 
prices and an exchange that gives over 
fifty francs for a sovereign, is once more 
becoming a little like herself. 

The new Montmartre, however, is not 
quite the old Montmartre, War has left its 
scars on the Hill of Bohemia. I was sitting 
a week or two pgo, in a caf6 in the beautiful 
Avenue Trudaine with one of the best*known 
of the Montmartre poets. if Look out of 
the window," he said to me, sadly, "and 
yon will see your Milton's Paradise Lost/* 

To the Parisian, Paris is France. To the 
Montmartois, Montmartre is Paris, and the 
rest of the city is a foreign land, A year or 
two before the war a Montmartre writer, 
who had gained considerable success in the 
Paris theatres, was obliged for professional 
reasons to move down the hill to a flat on 
the boulevards. His leave-taking was tear- 
ful arid almost tragic. He had his furniture 
packed in a hearse, which was followed 

through the streets by a hundred or so of 
his friends, dressed in deep mourning and 
weeping bitterly. 

Although it may be true that the old order 
has passed in Montmartre, as elsewhere in 
this world, the old cabaret spirit can still 
be found, notably at " La Lune Rcnisse," 
in the Rue Pigalle, where the entertainment 
is unmarred by mere gross n ess and is moulded 
on traditional cabaret lines by three men, 
Dominique Bonnaud, Georges Baltha, and 
Lucien Boyer, who have been associated 
together for thirty years, and who all be- 
longed at one time to the Lompany of " Chat 
Noir " poets. In order to*;;ive English 
readers some idea of "La Lune Roussc " 
I have been trying to think of any English- 
men at all similar in talent to Bonn and or 
Baltha or Boycr. 

They are all three middle-aged men. 
They are all poets, Lucien Boycr a really 
distinguished poet. They are all comic 
singers, Bonnaud and Baltha are actors too, 
and Baltha is really a very droll comedian. 
In addition, Bonnaud and Baltha are busi- 
ness men who run " La Lune Rousse " them- 
selves, and Bonnaud is a journalist who 
writes almost every day in one of the best- 
known of the Paris newspapers, Bonnaud 
is a portly gentleman, with glasses, who looks 
rather like a schoolmaster. Baltha is a little 
man with a heavy moustache and twinkling, 
laughing eye?. Lucien Boyer Jooks like a 
poet, if rather a prosperous one. 

If the Montmartre cabaret could be 
brought across the Channel and acclimatized 
in Loudon, it would be necessary for its 
artistes to combine the talents of the Poetry 
Bookshop, the Palladium, the leader-writers 
of the Morning Post, and of some astute 
theatrical manager like Mr. Vedrenne. And, 
alar; ! even if this were accomplished, the 
result would not be a bit like the real thing. 

The cabaret cannot be transplanted ; it 
cannot even be taken down the hill without 
dying of inanition. Fursy, who used to run 
the " Boite a Fursy *' at Montmartre, where 
Fragson sang before he returned to England, 
has set up his " boite " on the boulevards* 
with the idea of attracting an international 
public . The public has been attracted, but 
the savour has gone out of the entertainment. 
It has lost its note and its distinction* It 
has withered in a strange soil. 

The very names of the cabarets suggest 
the fantastic mind of the men who direct 
them : " La Pie Qui Chmte," " Lcs Quat^' 
Arts/' " Le Chat Noir/' " I/Ane Rouge " 
(once a cabaret and now a restaurant), " La 
Lune Rousse," and so on. It is a little 
difficult to find the correct translation for 
4t La Lune Roussc," but Lucien Rover h who 
speaks a little English, suggested to me 
" The Ginger MliwJ'T TO m 



*' The Ginger Moon " is a tiny little theatre 
that will hold, perhaps, three hundred people, 
with a tiny little stage on one side. The 
f >yer is decorated with most admirable pic- 
tures, many of them by artists with a great 
Parisian reputation. The entertainment be- 
gins, as it always begins at a cabaret, with 
a series of songs by the three principal stars 
and four other men-singers. It is only very 
rarely that any women artistes appear in the 
first part of a cabaret programme. The 
artistes are described on the programme as 
,J chansonniers et compositeurs." Each man 
sings songs the words of which he has written 
himself, generally set to some well-known 
and popular air. To secure an engagement 
at a cabaret the aspirant must be able to 
prove his ability as a verse- writer, and the 
verses that the cabaret demands are fanciful, 
audacious, and satirical comments on the 
events of the day. The first essential is that 
they shall be topical, The second essential 
is that they shall be humorous. The third 
essential is that they shall b* well written. 
Of course, the poet must be able to sing : 
but, truth to tell, the cabaret-poet is not 
generally a very good singer, Tradition 
relates that years ago there was a really fine 
teuor singer at the " Chat Noir/' His name 
was Gabriel Montoya, and, oddly enough, 
during the daytime he practised as a doctor. 

The success of the cabaret absolutely 



Phote. FtUx. 



depends on the fact that the public which it 
attracts has an intimate acquaintance with 
everything that is happening in the world 
outside, and it is just this fact that would 
make a cabaret hopelessly impossible in 
England, even if cabaret artistes could be 
found or trained. The ordinary man in the 
Paris streets reads newspapers all through, 
and is as interested in a political controversy 
in London between M r Millerand and Mr, 
Lloyd George as he is in the latest details of 
the Landru case or in a squabble between 
actresses in the green-room at the Th6*trj 
Francais. The Parisian is infinitely curious 
and his interests arc eclectic. Consequently 
the song-writers have a wide range of subjects 
and they can safely rely on the intelligence 
and on the knowledge of their hearers ♦ 

There is, as a matter of fact, very real little 
difference between what is calied a revue in 
London and the sort of entertainment that 
is produced at the large Paris theatres, such 
as the Casino de Paris. The London revues 
are better produced and rather duller. The 
Paris revues are wittier, much more risky, 
and perhaps on the whole less well played. 
But the distinctive French talent is to be 
found in the cabarets, and it is an interesting 
fact that the men who sing nightly in these 
Jittle halls, men like Lucien Boyer and Paul 
Marinier, are also frequently the authors of the 
revues that are staged in the large theatres, 

The cabaret artiste never wears evening 

d n.iN^R^Tf^tMJ!r ced by thc 


The Revival of the Paris Cabaret 


director (though this is not done at tJ The 
Ginger Moon ") as 4i mon excellent camar- 
ade," and then he goes on the stage and sings 
four or five of his own songs. There is apt 
to be a little sameness in the programme, and 
it is quite common to hear during one 
evening two or three ,songs on the same 
subject. For the most part the appearance 
of the performers suggests neither poets nor 
singers, Fursy wears rather comic clothes 
that remind one ©I Du Maurier's Quartier 
LatU, but the majority of the clothes of tfa* 
singers are just ordinary. One of the best of 
the company at " The Ginger Moon/' Leon 
Michel, looks like a highly respectable bank 
clerk, and is described on the programme as 
" ton jours content, jamais nerveux." 

Lucien Boyer is unquestionably the most 
talented and versatile of present-day cabaret 
artistes. He habitually sings four or five 
songs each evening, caustically commenting 
on the Beckett- Carpen tier fight, the railway 
strike, the greed of the English in forcing up 
the exchange, and so on t and between the 
songs he recites, amid the hush of hi^ audience, 
a really fine poem which he wrote in 1916 
when things, Heaven knows, were black 
enough for France, and in which he foretold, 
with French audacity, the return of the 
victorious " poilus " and the loud hurrahs 
for victory that rang from Dover to China, 
and at last — so insistent w T ere thev — reached 
the streets of heaven itself* Inquiry i* 

made as to the cause of the insistent dis- 
turbance ;- — 

Seigneur, fit une voix dans les celestes choeurs, 
C'est Ic grand defile des Allies vamqueurs 
Qui passe sous l'Arcde Tnomphe de TEtoile." 

It required some faith to see in 1916 the 
victorious Allies marching under the Arc dc 
Triomphe, and it is interesting that this 
faith belonged to a cabaret artiste. Another 
of Boyer's best poems, which he also fre- 
quently recites, is called " Les BeausnleiK" 
A wounded French -Canadian soldier, called 
Beausoleil, finds himself among kinsmen 
belonging to the old country, and the poem 
finishes with a fine passage which may be 
roughly translated : — 

They made for themselves a new France out 
there, but when they heard that the Kaiser was 
destroying the model on which they had built, 
the church-bells sounded the alarm, and they 
have come back, cousin, the Beau sol ei is have 
come back I 

I quote this to show the dignity of what 
may be called cabaret poetry — its avoidanre 
of clap- trap — and the curious versatility of a 
man who can follow the singing ol a song 
which would certainly appal the L<mdmi 
County Council, with a recitation of res- 
strained and well -imagined patriotic verse. 
The concluding part of the programme at 
The Ginger Moon "' is a wittily- written 
revue, acted with extraordinary skill on a 

/ ftvrra. 


Sidney Dark 


The foyer of " La Lunc Rousse,*' with the three principal artistes, MM, Boyer, Bonn<*ucK 

and Bait ha. 

stage about the size of a billiard table. The 
idea of the revues, like the Ideas of the songs, 
is topical, and they are changed very fre- 
quently. When I was in Paris "The Ginger 
Moon" revue was called "Dansons," Paris 
just now is as dancing mad as London, and 
the authors of the revue, in a series of very 
comic scenes, dcicri be how deputies, waitresses 

at. \]iv. Duval restaurants, Madame Bartct, 
the great Comedie Francaise actress, and 
finally the heroes of the Wagner operas — 
* Parsifal/' M Tannhauser/ 1 and " Lohengrin" 
— all abandon their propei r&Ies to indulge in 
the fox-trot. It was all very slight but it was alt 
very clever. For the revue the male com pan v 

""LfflTO^^ilCTldKfr* and one °* 


The Revival of the Paris Cabaret 

them, a young woman called Francette 
Martis, has remarkable burlesque powers 
which, if she were English, would certainly 
make her a Gaiety star and provide her with 
an ambassadorial salary. 

Intelligence is unquestionably the note of 
the cabaret, and intelligence is the outstand- 
ing characteristic of the cabaret artistes. 
• They are good people to gossip with. They 
have thought about thiugs, about art and 
letters and politics, and they have views, 
often very strong views, of their own. Their 
method of work is also very much their own. 
I lunched one day in a Montmartre cafe with 
Lucien Boyer, and he apologized for keeping 
me waiting while he finished writing a poem 
(and a capital poem it was, too) on the cafe 
table and amid the clatter made by waiters 
and customers. 

Boyer is a man of most attractive character. 
He spent most of his time during the war 
singing to the soldiers in the French lines, 
and even travelling as far as Salonika on his 
mission of amusement. His songs, as I have 
said, often contain very caustic criticisms of 
English policy, but, like most Frenchmen, he 
has the greatest admiration for the English 
soldier both as a good comrade and a first- 
class fighting-man. 

, There. is a development of the cabaret in 
many respects entirely unlike the original, 
without its particular art and atmosphere, 
but nevertheless essentially Parisian, which 
flourished in Boulevard Paris before the war 
and has now started again. When the 
cabaret comes down the hill it generally 
changes its name to " bolte." A " boite," 
or box, is a small room, holding,, with a 
squeeze, a hundred persons, which used, in 
the all-night days, to open about twelve 
o'clock, but which now opens between 
half-past nine or ten and shuts at eleven- 
thirty, when the Paris police rules compel 
all places of amusement to close their doors. 
Perhaps the best-known of these " boltes " is 
near the Place de l'Op6ra and is called 
" Chez Fysher." Its proprietor, A. Nilson 
Fysher, used to be well known in London 
as one of the Fysher-Farkoa duettists. 

There is no entrance charge at these 
" boites," but it is the rule that at each table 
there shall be bought at least one bottle of 
champagne, sold, by the way, at the present 
exchange, at a very moderate price. The 
entertainment consists of eight or ten songs. 
Fysher himself sings his own very charming 
compositions, light French love songs, the 
sort of thing that Maurice Farkoa used to 
sing in England. The other artistes are 
women. One of them is a humorous Parisian 
gamine, audacious, extremely clever, and 
amazingly vivacious. The other, and from 
the English point of view the more interesting, 
is a young person called Cora Madou, who 

sings to the accompaniment of a guitar what 
may be called declamatory songs, with a 
dramatic fervour which would be exaggerated 
if it were not for the singer's genuine art 

Mademoiselle Madou is interesting because 
she seemed to me to emphasize what is 
unquestionably one of the characteristics of 
Paris — a characteristic obvious everywhere 
in the city, but most obvious where the glitter 
is greatest and the pursuit of amusement 
most insistent. Paris is a thrilling city. 
Life moves swiftly in her streets. She is a 
city of quick thought and, as I have said 
before, of quick intelligence. The outside 
world has called her the Gay City, and in 
a sense the title is true, but the gaiety is 
very superficial. Under the surface, Paris is 
very sad. Hers is the sadness of experience, 
of disillusionment, of the inability to escape 
facts and of the capacity to estimate tacts 
at their true value. 

There is laughter in the cabaret, but, 
every now and again, there is bitterness in 
the laughter. The cabaret poets are ironists. 
Their genius is as ironic as the genius of 
Anatole France. 

It has been said that on the whole the 
English are the happiest people on the face 
of the earth, and it may be added that they 
are happy because they are comparatively 
easily deceived. The French are hard to 
deceive. They see through humbug and 
pretence. They detect the hypocrite. And 
because they have seen through so much 
humbug and because they have detected so 
many hypocrites, it has become a national 
characteristic to suspect everyone and to 
search for selfish motives even when an 
action appears most unselfish. This sus- 
picious attitude to life and this ironic view 
of the world bring with them a grey atmos- 
phere that is very evident to the acute 
observer of Paris life. 

And this is why Mademoiselle Madou, 
singing her songs in the little hot room near 
the Place de l'Op^ra, seemed to me to 
epitomize the Paris outside. There was 
champagne on the tables. The men and 
women in the room had dined well and all 
of them belonged to " le monde ou Ton 
s'amuse." They had been more or less 
amused all day and they were out for the 
last hour's amusement at its end. The 
woman bv the piano was singing just to 
supply that amusement — and in her eyes — 
deep set, striking eyes — there was a wealth 
and a depth of tragedy that only a great 
poet could read and put into words. And 
that is the real Paris ! Gaiety, ironic 
laughter, half-hidden sentiment, realistic 
acceptance of facts, and, dominating it ail, 
the undertone of sadness, occurring and re- 
occurring, and providing the " leit motiv " 

ofthe feW^ftHIGAN 


BV I ■ 

. ° BY o 












T'S these confounded 
stairs that are getting 
on my mind. I must 
certainly move out of 
this place." 

The thought mounted 
vaguely, through a barrier 
of headache, to Marshall 
Aylmer's brain — a brain 
which, a short time ago, he 
would certainly not have 
recognized as his own. 

But then it was such a 
curious world in which he 
had been living ever since 
his demobilization I 

In 1914 he had been at 
Oxford, reading for Honours, 
cresting the wave of Modera- 
tions triumphantly, and meditating nothing 
save the taking of Greats with the same 

Then the war opened her red and dripping 
jaws and swallowed him. Somehow he could 
never foresee that, as soon as he was done 
with, he would be thrown up again, stranded 
like Jonah on a desolate shore, with nothing 
before him but to begin life anew in a strange 

Meanwhile the bottom had dropped out 
of things. His father had been ruined by 
the war, and was dead. No return to Oxford 
for Marshall. He must earn his bread. He 
was not naturally a cynic, but it did strike 
him with a kind of pang to find out how 
loudly the same people who had hounded 
their young manhood to the war now 
shrieked in the Press and on public platforms 
that the Government should at once cease 
paying all these unnecessary soldier-men. 

What to do ? Marshall had not been bred 
up to be a scavenger, or he might have earned 
a comfortable wage. As it was, he wandered 
about the wealthy, crowded city, which his 
self-sacrifice had preserved, interviewing 













various sympathetic but 
helpless agencies, until at 
last he found himself in- 
stalled at three pounds a 
week in a clerk's job, which 
he loathed with a loathing 

He likewise loathed cheap 
boarding - houses, and he 
therefore installed himself in 
a warren of small service 
flats in an unfashionable 
neighbourhood. Inferior as 
it was, it was more than 
he could afford. He knew 
that, as soon as his gratuity 
money was spent, he would 
have to move. But some- 
thing seemed to have ceased 
to work in his brain — some motive power 
in him had gradually dwindled and finally 
expired during those awful empty months in 
which he had realized that he was nothing 
but an encumbrance and an anxiety to the 
society he had helped to save. 

He drifted on. By degrees he fell into the 
habit of declining invitations. It was a 
long way back from the West-end to Caithness 
Chambers ; and the Tube twice a day was 
enough, by George ! It was enough ! 

And then there were the stairs. Ninety- 
four of them. If there had been a lift, 
doubtless the flats would have been too 
dear for him even to think of renting 

When he got home of an evening, his brain 
tired and mushy with adding up columns — • 
he hated figures as energetically as he hated 
concrete stair-treads — he had to fight the 
feeling that he was obliged to count each 
step as he went up. Every floor was exactly 
like the last — the same pale, mud-coloured 
wall, the same chocolate doors with white 
numbers, the same gas-jet in a wire guard — 
all as like eis psas in a, pod. The bother was 



Counting the Steps 

that lately he could never count the stairs 
to make them come twice alike. 

It was a savage, sleeting March evening. 
Marshall had been eight months in his 
abhorred job, and it seemed eight years- 
it seemed far longer than the war — far 
longer than all his joyous public school and 
university life put together. 

His pre-war overcoat was wearing thin, 
but the profiteers who grow rich on the life- 
blood of demobilized officers had prevented 
his purchasing a new one. The fact that he 
was cold helped to dull his brain this evening. 
The bother of it was that when his brain 
was dullest the curious little obsessions 
which his solitary life was breeding in him 
became most distinct. 

So that, when he had gone to the very 
top and made it ninety-two, he must needs 
descend again to the very bottom and on 
his next upward journey count ninety-five. 
This so exasperated him that he went down 
once more, muttering to himself. His brow 
had now a little perpendicular furrow per- 
manently between his earnest grey eyes. 
His dark hair was losing its colour — he could 
detect grey hairs above his temples. 

" I'm being a silly rotter," he muttered, 
as he arrived for the last time on the ground 
floor. " Now, let's try once more. What- 
ever I make it this time I'll count it as 

And he made it eighty-one. 

However, he was not going down any 
more. Arithmetic be blowed ! He was a 
classic, not a mathematician. He was going 
to light his gas-fire, make himself coffee out 
of a tin of cafi au lait, and sit down with a 
book and a pipe until it was time to descend 
to the restaurant for dinner. 

" There's something malign about this 
whole place, and it's having a very bad 
effect on me," he said to himself, as he 
opened the narrow front door with his latch- 
key. " I'm going to move, if there's a 
vacant room in the city of London " (which, 
as a matter of fact, there was not — even at 
a premium). 

THE interior furnishing of the flats was as 
uniform as their outside arrangement. 
Aylmer hung his hat upon the usual peg 
and walked along the usual passage to the 
usual door. He entered the usual room, with 
the usual fireplace in the usual position, the 
usual overmantel surmounting it. Had the 
overmantel been on the floor for a change, 
he thought it might have cheered him up. 
The usual table stood in the middle of the 
room. But a screen had been placed between 
the table and the door. That was not usual ; 
and when he came round it he saw something 
still more daringly out of the common. For, 
at the farther side of the table, between it 

and the fireplace, was a woman, seated on 
a chair. 

She was about his own age, he guessed, 
and she seemed to be in a towering rage. 
Her coat and skirt looked untidy and 
crumpled ; her hair was dishevelled, as if 
she had lately been engaged in a rough-and- 
tumble. Her hat and some furs lay upon 
the table. She was pale and rather gaunt, 
with dark eyes like live coals ; and she sat 
with her two hands down at her sides, resting 
on the seat of her chair. She made no 
movement to rise when the outraged owner 
walked round the screen and confronted her. 
She simply glared. He thought she looked 
as if she would bite. 

In fact, so threatening was her aspect that 
Aylmer, a man accustomed to be courteous 
to women, and feeling far too tired and 
used-up for strife, thought it best, in spite of 
the insolent intrusion, to be conciliatory ; 
and he therefore, with an ironic smile, wished 
the lady " Good evening." 

She sneered hatefully — almost as though 
purposely making herself as unattractive as 
possible. " Already ? " said she. " I don't 
think they thought you would show up as 
soon as this." 

Aylmer stood motionless. He was totally 
bewildered. " This is about my usual time," 
said he, " Do you want to see me about 
anything ? " 

" Of course, I've been simply yearning for 
this delightful meeting," she gibed, bitterly. 
Then, as if something in his aspect struck 
her as unexpected, she added, sharply : 
" I suppose you are Marshall, are you 
not ? " 

His face lightened. The sound of his 
Christian name from the lips of a girl — even 
so ferocious a girl as this — was uncommon 
enough to be pleasant. This must be some 
forgotten relative. 

14 Certainly I'm Marshall," he replied, 
promptly, " and, of course, I'm really no 
end bucked to find you here. I only don't 
quite understand. Would you mind telling 
me who you are ? " 

" Oh, cut it out ! " she cried, raging at 
him. " What is the good of playing the 
goat like this ? " 

Aylmer was now so thoroughly puzzled 
that a hateful suspicion crept into his mind, 
sending a cold shiver down his spine. Those 
stairs — this female — could he be going mad ? 
An alternative, hardly less unpleasant, pre- 
sented itself. He guessed that he might 
be the victim of a practical joke. He knew 
that two young men, whose appearance and 
manners he had always found most dis- 
tasteful, lived on his staircase. They had 
made overtures to acquaintance, which he 
had nipped in the bud. Doubtless they had 

" Iitten M*^ WiiGW nvite this 

Mrs. Baillie Reynolds 


young woman to his rooms. But how had 
she got in ? 

" You are evidently making a mistake of 
some kind/' he said, as steadily as he could. 
" I have made no appointment with anyone, 
and I do not know who you are, nor why 
you are here. I think it may be better if 
you leave at once." 

" So do I," she replied, grimly. " As 
you know, I shouldn't have come if I could 
have helped it. But I do wish I understood 
the object of this play-acting on your part." 

" Play-acting ! " he echoed, wrathfully. 
" I wish I knew what you are talking about ! 
I walk in to find a strange female seated on 
my hearth, and when I ask to have the 
situation explained, she tells me to cut it 
out ! " He folded the screen and set it 
back against the wall. " There's the door. 
If you want to go, why not go ? I assure 
you I won't hinder you." 

She still made no least motion to rise 
from the chair to which she seemed to be 
rooted. " You won't hinder ? " she said, 
slowly. * : No, you get other people to do 
the hindering for you, don't you ? Oh, I 
think you are a perfect brute ! Isn't it 
enough to have me here at your mercy like 
this, without mocking me ? " 

Tears of rage gathered in her stormy eyes, 
but she was too proud to weep. She kept a 
stiff upper lip, though two drops were rolling 
down either side of her well-cut nose. 

Aylmer grew angrier and angrier ; and 
anger seemed to be having the effect of 
clearing his brain. He no longer thought 
about the number of the stairs — he was 
secretly wishing that this eccentric visitor 
would or could give a plausible explanation 
of her presence in his flat. 

" Mock you ? " he echoed, leaning his fists 
on the table and facing her squarely. " Some- 
body's mocking all right, but it isn't me. 
Well, I've asked you to go, and you decline ; 
and I've asked you to say who you are, and 
you won't. I gather that you insist upon 
foisting your company on me, so I'd better 
make some coffee. I think there are two 
cups." As he spoke he went to the cup- 
board bqside the fireplace and flung it open. 
Then he jumped. It was usually in perfect 
order, but now somebody had made hay 
there. He could see no cups, no cafi au lait t 
no biscuit-box. A mass of tobacco- tins, 
tattered magazines, and old newspapers 
confronted him. He stood motionless, pass- 
ing his hand over his forehead. 

" So I am really going mad ! " he muttered 
aloud. " There isn't a girl in that chair at 
all — there isn't a cup in the cupboard. I'm 
dreaming I " 

" Or drunk 1 " cried the girl in the chair, 
defiantly. " Why, of course, that's it ! Thank 
the fates, that may give me a chance ! " 

He was now standing close by her, and she 
turned to him a face so altered that he 
hardly knew it. Sudden spots of colour 
burned in her cheeks, her eyes glittered 
strangely. "Bea pal," said she, coaxingly ; 
" let's put off talking about unpleasant 
things ! Take me out somewhere for a bit of 
dinner — that's a dear chap." 

She spoke still without the least change 
of posture, but with her body slightly 
twisted, so that she looked over her shoulder ; 
and the result was so seductive that horror 
seized the honest soul of Marshall Aylmer. 

" Go ! " he cried, loudly. " Out with you, 
I say, at once ! If you are a real woman, get 
up from that chair and clear ! " And, as 
she made no movement to obey, he went 
behind her and tipped the chair smartly 
to make her arise. 

To his horror, she fell on her knees, her 
hands remaining as before, clutching the 
two uprights of the back of her chair, just 
above the seat, and he perceived, with un- 
speakable amazement, that she was tied by 
both wrists with silk handkerchiefs. Bend- 
ing over her, he was compelled to put his 
arms right round her to draw her back to a 
perpendicular posture ; and thus made the 
further discovery that both her ankles were 
likewise secured to the chair-legs. 

" Why, what on earth ! " he gasped. She 
said nothing at all. " Mad or sane, drunk 
or sober, I'm going to untie you," he panted. 

With mutterings of wrath and mystifica- 
tion, he proceeded to unfasten the intricate 
knots, his indignation almost choking him 
as he saw that she had been secured so tightly 
that she must have been suffering actual 
pain during their interview. Her feet and 
ankles seemed to him pitifully small. He 
set himself to chafe them gently. Presently 
she gave a weary sigh. 

" That's good," said she. " You've done a 
better day's work for yourself than you 
know. If you had been merciless, I would 
have fought you inch by inch. But now 
I'm not so sure. I think we may come to 
some kind of an agreement," 

AYLMER stood staring at her, his whole 
being in tumult. He violently resented 
her tone — the tone in which one humours 
a drunken man. She was evidently a temp- 
tress ; yet she could not have tied herself 
hand and foot to a chair. He recurred to 
the practical joke theory. It seemed the 
most probable ; in fact, the only conceivable. 
It made him furious, for it meant that he 
must get rid of her at once ; and the past ten 
minutes had been distinctly stimulating. 
However, there was no help for it. He must 
put her outside the door forthwith, before 
the perpetrators of the joke called to see 
how it was working out* 




Counting the Steps 

He took out his watch. " Sorry not to 
have time to discuss it now," said he. " Fact 
is, I have an appointment to keep in half an 
hour, and got to change first. So if you'll 
run along at once " 

She laid her red, swelled hands upon the 
table and dragged herself to her feet. Then 
she shook her head. " Sorry," said she, 
"I'm afraid I must wait a few minutes — 
I couldn't get downstairs yet." 

Then her face changed. It seemed sud- 
denly to dawn upon her that the man was 
more drunk than she had supposed — that he 
did actually mean to let her go. There 
swept into her singularly changeful face a 
look of exhilaration and delight. She 
snatched her hat shakily, pinned it on any- 
how — but the effect was quite good — and 
picked up her furs. 

" Yes," she murmured, soothingly, her 
eyes fixed warily on his, " I see what you 
mean. I'll wait outside for you — you change 
— and follow me, won't you ? " She smiled 
enticingly, moving with a hobbling gesture 
across the room towards the door. It occurred 
to Aylmer that in a moment more she would 
have disappeared, and he would never, as 
long as he lived, learn the meaning of this 
wild episode in his blameless career. Practical 
joke be blowed ! He moved between her and 
the door. 

The way in which her face fell was pathetic. 
The hope which had kindled for a moment, 
making a different girl of her, sank away 

11 Before you go," he said, earnestly, " you 
really must tell me who you are and what 
you are doing here." 

She gazed upon him as if she would tear 
out his very soul. " Oh, I can't understand," 
said she. " Isn't there some hitch some- 
where ? I don't believe this man is drunk 
at all." 

" I assure you I'm not. I had a small 
Bass with my lunch. Nothing since." 

" And you say you don't know who I am ? " 

" Not on your life, I don't." 

" But you — you are — Marshall ? " 

' Certainly ! And you ? " 

She risked it. " I'm Lesley Gatesgarth." 

" Lesley Gatesgarth ? " he repeated, 

" Well, now I know there must be a hitch 
somewhere," said she. " You couldn't be so 
drunk that my name wouldn't recall things." 

" The name," he said, meditatively, " does 
recall something. It strikes a chord of 
memory. But I never saw you before, of 
that I'm certain." 

She subsided into a chair, to relieve her 
sore ankles. " And the newspapers don't help 
any more than that ! " she murmured. " Yet 
I thought the one in the Daily Mandate was 
very good, myself." 

Digitized by GOOgle 

HE dropped into another chair, over the 
back of which he scrutinized her keenly. 
" Jove ! " he said. " You're the Missing 
Witness, in the Gibson jewel case ? " 

She nodded. 

He snatched at his head with both hands. 
" But this makes it worse instead of better ! " 
he shouted. " If you are Lesley Gatesgarth, 
what on earth, what in the name of all the 
powers, can you be doing in my flat ? " 

" Your flat ? " she repeated, in astonished 
accents. " But I thought it was Gooch's ? " 

" Gooch's ! " He leapt to his feet. 
" Gooch's flat ! " His eyes ranged all round, 
and then he fairly shouted with relief. " Now 
the gods be praised," said he, " for I am 
not mad after all ! I've done nothing 
worse than enter the wrong flat by mistake. 
No wonder there were only eighty-two — 
and that's too many — but no matter for that. 
Just let me understand. Am I too bold in 
inferring, from the evidence of these bonds, 
that you were being detained here against 
your will ? " 

44 You are not," said the girl, shortly: 
Her manner was in an odd way reassuring. 
He felt that she was straight, after all. " But 
ever since you came in, I have felt as though 
you cannot be Marshall. Yet you say you 
are " 

" Marshall Aylmer," he corrected. 

" Aylmer ? Not the man from upstairs ? " 
Colour burned in her cheeks. Suddenly she 
was eager, youthful, trusting, all her un- 
natural defiance gone. " You really are the 
man they were afraid of ? " she cried. " They 
said Marshall would not come for an hour, 
because he would wait until Aylmer, ' the 
fool from upstairs,' had gone, down to dinner. 
They were afraid I might scream, I suppose." 

She was surprised to see him turn as white 
as ashes. " And — and you thought I was 
this — this scoundrel ? " he said, thickly. 

" I don't know what I thought," she sighed, 
and lowered her eyes. 

" Well, we had better try and do a get- 
away before he materializes," said Aylmer, 
with a valiant attempt at sang-froid. " If 
you will trust me, I think we shall be safer 
upstairs in my place than anywhere ; not 
forgetting to bolt the door, as evidently our 
keys fit each other's locks." 

He raised her to her feet. " Lean on me," 
said he, curtly ; and piloted her along the 
passage, where now he noted various differ- 
ences, and was surprised they should have 
escaped him when entering. 

" The dinner-bell hasn't sounded yet," he 
said, " so we have time. But be very quiet." 

The door of the upper flat once fast 
behind them with shot bolts, Miss Gatesgarth 
displayed some embarrassment. 

" I'm afraid that was a stupid move," 
said she. " We had better have walked 


Mrs. Baillie Reynolds 



'Go!* he cried, loudly. 'Out wth^ nfn^-jeA-rW MICHIGAN 


Counting the Steps 

calmly downstairs. They wouldn't have 
dared to stop us." 

"I'm not so sure — it depends upon how 
desperate they are," he replied. " These 
stairs are pretty lonely as a rule. And I 
simply must hear the whole story. After 
that, we will go out to dinner, if you will — 
or I will take you home." 

" I don't think it would be safe for me 
to go home," she answered, with perfect 

" This becomes more thrilling every 
minute," he - cried, as he lit his gas-fire 
and settled his guest in comfort upon a 
chair very unlike her seat in the flat 

The whole world had become an astonish- 
ingly different place since the arrival of this 
guest. The little room was not bad by half, 
when it had a girl in it ! 

WHEN he had made coffee and pushed 
the cigarettes to her, she told him 
her history. 

An only child, motherless, and unwisely 
indulged by her father, a business man in 
a provincial town, she grew up with a 
strong taste for the stage. She helped in 
the formation of an amateur dramatic club, 
and on one occasion they engaged the services 
of a London professional, named Gooch, to 
coach them for a charity performance. This 
man's praise encouraged her to hope that if 
she took to acting as a career she might 
•' make good." Her father objected ; but 
when his death, soon after, left her her own 
mistress, she came to London, and with 
Gooch's assistance obtained a place in the 
chorus at a theatre where musical comedy 
was played. In a few months she was bored 
stiff by the whole thing, and saw no prospect 
of ever doing better. 

At that time Herbert Gooch. who was 
himself in the company, suggested to her 
the formation of a troupe, which should 
specialize in country-house entertaining. 
He introduced to her his friend Bateson, 
who shared his flat, and a smart lady, 
who sang contralto and said she was Mrs. 
Bateson. They set up business together, 
sometimes giving shows in provincial town- 
halls, but chiefly relying upon visits to big 
country houses. No doubt they found Miss 
Gatesgarth an asset during these visits, as 
she was so obviously " all right " from the 
social and moral standpoint. It appeared 
to her that the profit on the capital she had 
invested was very meagre ; but the other 
members of the company seemed to be quite 
satisfied with the financial outlook. She 
hardly knew when it first dawned upon her 
that all was not right. Perhaps her first 
doubt took rise when she found out that 
Mrs. Bateson had no legal right to the title. 

Then there was a funny episode concerning 
this lady and the wearing of a jewel which 
Lesley remembered as the property of a girl 
in a house in which they had been enter- 
tained a few months before. There had been 
a burglary at that house, after their visit ; 
and when there was again a successful 
burglary, at another house, a few weeks after 
their stay in it, even the unsophisticated 
Lesley began to put two and two together. 

THE flare-up came quite suddenly. They 
were discussing the latest theft, which 
was at the house of a millionaire called 
Gibson — and some allusion, or look, gave her 
a clue. She was imprudent, she was head- 
strong — she repudiated them and announced 
her intention of denouncing them. 

They tried to persuade her that she was 
tarred with the same brush as themselves — 
that it was useless for her to rebel — that she 
could not betray her own lot — and that if 
she would only lie boldly in the witness-box, 
she might be the saving of them all. 

But she was obdurate. She had been 
taken in, made a fool of, used as a tool — 
just as her dead father had prophesied 
would happen to a lonely girl who tried 
to run herself. The thought stung like a 

So she was made a captive. She disap- 
peared ; for more than a fortnight, as Aylmer 
knew from the papers, the Missing Witness 
had been sought in vain. But she was a 
difficult creature to hold, and her jailers 
found themselves quite unable to intimidate 
her. Evidently they decided that stronger 
methods must be adopted if they wished to 
silence her permanently. 

The real mainspring of the conspiracy, the 
power behind, was a man called Marshall, 
whom Lesley had never seen. She was 
sentenced to be handed over to this terrible 
personage, who would " make her see reason." 
What method of suasion he intended to 
adopt will never be known. Perhaps it was 
all a great bluff, designed merely to extort a 
signature from a cowed and frightened girl. 
To Aylmer, the fact of their leaving her alone 
in the flat, and their avowed care that he 
should be out of hearing before Marshall's 
arrival on the scene, bore a sinister signifi- 

The last part of the story was consider- 
ably hurried, for Aylmer displayed signs of 
excitement as he listened. The moment he 
had grasped the essential facts, he was on his 

" This is the first time I've been glad my 
predecessor paid for a telephone extension 
up here ! I've always grudged the rent of it 
until this evening ! If I can get the police to 
come here right away, they may catch the 
arch-conspirator, red-handed." 


Mrs. BailHe Reynolds 



Lean on me/ said he, curtly; and piloted her aiong tAe passage. 



Counting the Steps 

THE fame of the trial rang over London, 
and the heroine of the affair gained a 
most undesired notoriety. 

The camera fiend pursued her footsteps 
with a persistency almost as disagreeable 
as that of her criminal associates. And the 
hours of Aylmer's work were exacting. He 
could be with her, to shield her, only for so 
short a part of each day. 

" If only I were not a pauper ! " he cried, 
as they sat together on penny chairs in a 
secluded part of Kensington Gardens, " I 
would take you right away to Italy or some- 
where, and keep you all to myself ! But 
you wouldn't come, very likely, even if I 
could take you ! " 

" Boy, I'd cross the world barefoot after 
you," said she, softly. " Don't be so foolish. 
Didn't you know I have three thousand a 
year of my own, and when my stepmother 
dies, I shall have as much again ? Hand in 
your notice at your old office, and we'll start 
when you like." 

He grew crimron, and was overwhelmed. 
" By Jove ! I'd no idea ! What a reptile 
you must think me ! 1 suppose I knew you 
must have some money of your own, if I 
had taken the time to think sensibly about it. 
But I didn't. 1 couldn't. 1 just fell head- 

long in love, and never stopped to count the 
cost " 

" That's the delightful part of it," she 
answered him, in her incisive way. " If it 
comes to that, it was your stopping to count 
— not the cost, but the steps, that brought 
you to me, to save me ! If you hadn't gone 
on and on, counting too long, you would have 
tumbled to the fact that, if there were only 
eighty-two stairs, you must be on the wrong 
floor " 

" But I wasn't. I was on the right floor. 
The Inner Light flooded my being. I 
followed the gleam — and here we are ! " 

" But don't let us stay here," she pleaded, 
quaintly. " Let us take one another for 
better or worse, and be off to the sunny 
south where we can find gardens to laze in, 
and boats to drift in. You shall take a 
long, long holiday — ah, my dear, my dear — 
what is anything they did to me compared 
with what cruel England has made you 
suffer ? In return for all you did for her, 
she tied you hand and foot, and left you 
helpless ! And as you rescued me, so I 
rescue you — and — and I mean to spend 
my life trying to make it up to you ! " 

t: I haven't much doubt of your success, ' 
he told her. 


Our fifteenth acrostic series begins with No. 85. printed 
below, and will run for four months. Prizes to the value 
of twelve guineas will be awarded to the most successful 


Thk happy time wo fleet. 
Where earth and ocean meet. 

1. A sound that gods and geese employ. 

2. A dozen to the pound in Troy. 

3. A lady with ' a beaming eye. ' 

4. A rainbow envoy from the sky. 

5. A half in England, half in France, 

6. A help ; if first, an ambulance. 

7. A bond, a burden hard to bear ; 
Now it is one thing, now a pair. 


Answers to Acrostic No. 85 should be addressed to the 
Acmsfie Editor, The Strand Maoazinb, Southampton 
Street. Strand, London, W.C.2, and must arrive not later 
than by the first post on August 10th. 

To every light one alternative answer may be sent ; it 

should &• written at the side. At the foot of his answer every 
solver should write his pseudonym and nothing else. 

Answer to No. S4. 



o r « 



o n o r i 




1 e ve n t 




h read n eed 1 




y pat i 




oo t 9 










Notes.— Light 1 Torso, or so. 2 On or if ; part of 
honoriRcabtiitudinitatihus, the word produced by Costard 
in " Love's Labour's Lost " r costard, an apple. 3. 
Fathom, 2 yard* • chain, 22 vards. 4. Threadneedle 
Street, the Bank of England : clue, thread * to thread a 
needle, 5 Kingslev's novel " Hypatia • or. New F<v* 
with an Old Face " 6 Barry. Cornwall : Procter. 
7 Gladstone, water. 8 Lnnar crater, lunar Apennines. 

For the sixth light of No. 81 any reasonable part of 
• * Rikki-tikki-tavi " is accepted, and for the last light of 
No. 82 the abbreviated form, " Rasps, " is also taken 
as correct. 

by Google 

Original from 


QZ£ PYc/srMW MrfN 




been looking forward 
to this holiday. He 
had been looking for- 
ward to it for weeks. And he had most 
assuredly earned it. Yet like many things 
which are too eagerly looked forward to, 
there was, at the last, a catch in it — a 
catch which spoiled the whole thing. 

In six years Loring had worked his way 
up, from junior reporter to a really good 
position on the New York Palladium. And 
at twenty-seven he was earning eighty dollars 
a week. Now, even in New York, a newly- 
wed man and wife may live on eighty 
dollars a week. At least, they may econo- 
mize on it. And being very much in love, 
Mack Loring was wholly willing to econo- 
mize. He was certain Eve Nevis would 
be willing, too, if once he could present the 
proposition to her in the right way. 

That right way was to have been the 
chief and most wonderful feature of his 
holiday. The Nevis family had rented a 
little summer camp in the Adirondacks. 
And very nearly by no effort of his own, 
Loring had been invited to spend his annual 
two weeks' holiday there. 

He and Eve were not engaged. Often 
he had thought up perfectly stunning pro- 
posals, but always something had happened 
to prevent the speaking of them. The 
'* something " was apt to take the form of 
a lump in Mack's throat. Or else, by the 
time he had swallowed that, someone was 
fatally certain to break in on their talk, 
from outside, with a silly interruption. 

So the proposal had never been made. 
Loring used to torture himself by picturing 
alternately whether Eve would have said 
yes or no — had not that lump in his throat 
silenced him or had not someone interrupted. 
He knew she liked him. He hoped she 
loved him. 

But during his divine two weeks' holiday 
in her own home he was resolved to speak. 
Surely the continuous nearness to her would 
breed an intimacy which must wipe out the 
fear-bred throat-lump ? Yes, Mack Loring 
was coming home engaged, or else he was 


coming home an eternally 
blighted man. One or the 
other, he was firmly decided. 
Then, three days before his 
holiday was due, came one of those periodical 
shake-ups for which the Palladium office was 
notorious. And with it came into power a new 
managing editor— one Ethan Roscoe, im- 
ported from a rival paper. Five years earlier, 
when Loring had been little more than a junior 
and Roscoe had been the Bugle's chief reporter. 
Mack had snatched an important item of 
news from under Roscoe's very nose. Thereby 
he won praise and an increase of salary. 
This had injured Roscoe's prestige and had 
earned the ridicule of his associates. 

Whereat, Roscoe had vowed crankily 
that soon or late he would " get " the 
man who had made a fool of him. That 
had been five years ago. But several 
things, meantime, had led Mack to believe 
that Roscoe had not forgotten. And, here, 
three days before his annual holiday was 
due, Loring had received a polite note from 
the new managing editor — a note which 
read : — 

" My Dear Mr. Loring, — I very much 
regret that the need for retrenchment on 
the staff, as well as certain contemplated 
changes in the paper's personnel, will force 
us to deprive ourselves of your valued 
services, at the conclusion of the present 

" I beg that you will not regard this as 
a reflection on your uniformly excellent 
work. Let me take this opportunity to 
tell you how much I, personally, admire that 
work — I clearly recall a notable instance 
of it, five years ago, for example — and how 
much I regret my inability to avail myself 
further of it. 

" Faithfully yours, 

" Ethan V. Roscoe, 
" Managing Editor." 

Mack Loring would have respected the 
man more and would have felt less savagely 
resentful if Roscoe's dismissal letter had 
contained only the pregnant line : — 

" I've got you at last. Clear out ! " 

Yet his anger at Roscoe faded into 

j i 1 1 .* 1 1 1 



The Pyjama Man 

nothingness in face of the grim fact that 
Loring was fired — was out of a job, at the 
very start of his holiday, at the very time 
wheh he, had planned to ask Eve Nevis to 
be his "wife. . \ 

What right had" a jobless "newspaper man, 
in an" era of hard times; to ask a woman to 
marry him?. No right at alll The thing 
was out of the question. It might be months 
before Mack could land another decent 
job. It might be a year or more before he 
could count on a salary sufficient for him 
to marry. 

The blissful anticipation of his two weeks' 
forest holiday turned to ashes between 
his teeth. Of what use was it now ? He 
could not propose to Eve. He had no right 
to. He could merely be near her and taste 
the fabled anguish of Tantalus. He. must 
stay out his visit and then go away without 
saving the wonderful words which might 
have opened Paradise to him. It was rotten 
— whichever way he chose to look at it. 

Yet the idea did not occur to him to 
write that he could not accept her parents' 
invitation. If the fortnight was to mean 
misery instead of rapture — well, he was 
going through with it, anyway. Which 
was a characteristic determination on the 
part of Mack Loring. 

HE stepped on board the Montreal Ex- 
press at the Grand Central Station at 
three o'clock on the Saturday after- 
noon whereon his holiday began. He was 
assigned to a compartment in one of the two 
Pullman cars which were to be switched from 
the rest of the train at Fulton Chain, and 
which were then to be hitched to an oil- 
burning engine and dragged through the 
Chain and on up into the hinterland. 

Settling his luggage in the rack and on 
his seat, Loring took out a cigarette and 
wandered into the smoking compartment 
of his car. As he passed along the tiny 
corridor dividing the smoker from the 
drawing-room, he glanced idly in through 
the half-open door of the latter. 

Lolling back on the couch-like forward 
seat of the drawing-room sat a lanky man 
with a very white face and a very black 
beard. Loring had no need for a second 
look — no newspaper man would have needed 
more than a single glimpse — to recognize the 
lolling personage as Simon Carver Stell, rail- 
road and mining magnate, Wall Street king, 
and just then the most notorious man in the 
news-reading world. 

On the seat opposite to the black-bearded 
man primly sat a little old lady in grey — 
Mrs. Simon Carver Stell, the scared-eyed 
and .permanently cowed spouse of the 

Every day, for months, the papers had 

published stories of StelTs enormous financial 
deals, of the countless evidences of his un- 
scrupulous -power. Stell was the best-hated 
and most prominent man in America — for 
the moment. Mack remembefed now a 
recent news-announcement that the old 
blackguard (the paper had referred to him 
as " the famous financier ") had broken down 
in health and was about to go to his palatial 
Adirondack camp for a month of complete 

Mack passed on and .went into the smoker. 
Nor did he emerge therefrom until he heard 
the droning summons to the dining-car. 
The Stells, he noted, dined in their own 
compartment, attended by no fewer than 
three of the dining-car's insufficient force of 

Mack was tired. He ordered his berth to 
be made up early. He had been so lucky 
as to secure a lower. Into this he crawled 
at eight o'clock, in order to get a decent 
night's rest before the two detached cars 
should arrive at their mountain-station goal 
at 2 a.m. Passengers at the mountain 
terminus of the spur road were, as usual, to 
remain on board until dawn. 

By a peerless feat of Houdini contortionism, 
commonly known (and too seldom praised) 
as " undressing in the berth," Loring divested 
himself of his day clothes and got into his 
lavender-and-white-striped pyjamas. He was 
asleep, in spite of the jar and stuffiness of 
his quarters, before the train had travelled 
another three miles. 

An hour or two later he awoke, and heard 
a man in the upper berth snoring thunder- 

" Shut up ! " begged Mack, shaking the 
berth-curtains until their rings jangled. The 
snoring stopped. Mack fell asleep again. 

He dreamed that the man in the upper 
berth tried considerately to choke back his 
snores, and that the effort caused the man 
to swell up and explode. The explosion 
brought the upper berth crashing down upon 
the lower and sent Loring flying through the 
air into distant space, hurling him at last, 
with a nerve-racking shock, against the 
managerial desk of Ethan Roscoe. The 
terrific impact brought Mack to his senses. 

He was not plastered against the side of 
Roscoe's desk, as he had dreamed. But 
neither was he in his snug lower berth. He 
was lying in a heap, on the ground, in a 
thicket of bristly weeds. 

Above him — and hanging over as if just 
about to fall — swayed the Pullman car in 
which he had been sleeping. The car had 
buckled. A gaping rent in its side showed 
where Loring had been shot forth from his 
berth and into the weeds. 

In the ail still hun^ echoes of the explosion- 
sound which had mingled with Mack's dream. 

Albert Payson Terhune 


' Lor in g had no need for a s±ccnd lcok to recognise the lolling personage as Simon Carver St^l!, 

the railroad and mining mar nate." 

And over and beyond that rang the yells of 
scared men, the screams of new- waked 
women, and the raucous orders bellowed by 

The two cars, with th'ir oil engine, had 
rounded a curve in the mountain spur-line 
and had smashed, head-on, into a leisurely 
coeds train coming from the opposite direc- 

tion. The train -dispatcher, up the road, had 
taken a glass too many that night. The 
wreck was the result. 

His newspaper instincts at once aflame, 
Mack Loring scrambled to his feet and 
stumbled toward the damaged train. Tie 
first step told him that he was bruised and 
scratched, and that the breath was temporarily 



The Pyjama Man 

knocked out of his lungs, but that he had 
escaped otherwise unharmed. In brief, he 
was competent to do a reporter's work, at 
this scene of a corking good news-story. 

He had stuck his watch into the breast 
pocket of his pyjamas when he went to bed. 
It was still there ; and it was still going. Its 
hands, in the wavery light, indicated the 
hour as one-twenty-one. Any time before 
two o'clock would be sufficient for Mack to 
telephone his article to the Palladium office. 

Loring jumped aboard the listed and 
buckled front car. It was full of shouting 
and wriggling people. The conductor was 
examining the tangled mass of passengers 
by the light of two electric flares. Everyone 
was more or less shaken up. Some were 
bruised by the tumbles from their berths; two 
or three seemed to be suffering from broken 
limbs ; and nearly everyone had been more or 
less badly cut by the flying glass. But that 
appeared to be the full extent of the casualties. 
The passengers had got oil easily. 

In the rear car matters were still better. 
This car had not even been derailed. Some 
of its windows were shattered. Its passengers 
were scratched and shaken up and scared. 
That was all. 

Mack jumped to the ground and ran to the 
crumpled engine. He found here the grue- 
some little group of lantern-bearing train- 
men his newspaper experience had taught 
him to expect. The group was huddled 
around three moveless bodies which had just 
been stretched out on the ground — the bodies 
of the engineer and fireman of the oil loco- 
motive, and the engineer of the goods train. 
From a babbling railway man Mack learned 
the names of the three victims and jotted 
them down on the tablets of his news-trained 

That seemed to be the extent of it, from 
a reporter's standpoint : there had been a 
night collision ; three railroad employes had 
been killed, two engines and one Pullman 
car had been wrecked ; some thirty passengers 
had been frightened and cut ; and one or two 
limbs had been broken. It was good enough, 
but not great. It was worth telephoning to 
the office, if Mack could find a long-distance 
telephone, in time ; but it was not worth a 
" spread." Indeed, from an editorial stand- 
point, the most interesting thing about the 
disaster was the fact that Simon Carver Stell 
was on board the smitten train and that the 
magnate's important life had been imperilled. 

AS this knowledge sifted into Loring's 
brain, it occurred to him to find out 
how the financier had withstood the 
shock. Perhaps, in the stress of the moment, 
Stell might even be willing to say something 
quotable about the wreck or about his sensa- 
tions therein. 

by LiOOglC 

With this hope in the back of his mind 
Loring left the group around the three victims 
and swung back on to the front platform of 
the buckled car. The front door had been 
ripped from its hinges. A lantern had been 
dropped on the vestibule floor and was still 
burning there. Mack picked up the light 
and made for the drawing-room, which was 
at the car's extreme front. 

The drawing-room door had also been 
ripped away, and the glass of the partitions 
was in fragments. The conductor, having 
just ploughed a path through the passengers, 
was entering the uptilted drawing-room as 
Mack appeared in the vestibule. Peering 
through the gloom of the compartment, the 
conductor turned to Loring. 

" Gimme that light ! " he commanded, 
snatching the lantern from Mack, and flasliing 
its rays into the upset room. " All right in 
here ? " he went on, obsequiously. 

Then he caught his breath, with a ludi- 
crously explosive grunt. Loring, peeping 
over the blue-clad shoulder, understood why. 

There on the tiptilted plush lounge crouched 
a withered little figure in white, wisps of 
grey hair straggling down the stricken face. 
It was Mrs. Stell — nightgown-draped and 
apparently unhurt. But she was making 
strange gasping sounds, and her body swayed 
back and forth in rhythmic measure to hor 

In her lap lay something over which she 
was pawing bewilderedly. It was a man's 
head — the head of Simon Carver Stell, rail- 
road magnate. 

The rest of Stell's body trailed along the 
slanted floor and the corner of the blue plush 
couch in a distorted series of angles never 
intended by nature. Beside it lay the heavy 
dislodged steel cornice of the drawing-room, 
painted to imitate mahogany — the great 
lump of painted steel which in its fall had 
broken the neck of Simon Carver Stell 1 

To a reporter of Mack's experience, as to 
the conductor and to Mrs. Stell, a single 
glance was enough to tell the story. The 
man was dead — probably struck to death as 
he had slept. 

High in Mack Loring's heart blazed the 
news-instinct. Here was something well 
worth stopping the presses for — the most im- 
portant piece of news of the summer. And 
to him alone of all the newspaper fraternity 
was it given to score for his paper this trans- 
cendent scoop ! If he could get word of it 
into the Palladium office in time for the last 
edition his paper could beat the town on it. 
Not another paper — not even the Associated 
Press — could hope to get the tidings in time 
to print a line of it that morning. 

Wheeling about, Mack dashed out of the 
car. As he ran, a backward glance showed 
him that a doctor was at work among the 

U 1 1 I U I I I .' I I 


Albert Paysori Terhune 


hurt passengers, and that a semblance of 
order was restored. He could be of no 
help here. And the way was clear for him 
to get to the nearest building which held a 

" How far off is the next station ? " he 
demanded of a trainman. 

" Hillslope ! " came the puffed reply. 
" 'Bout a mile up the track." 

He waved a hand in the general direction 
of the station and hurried on. Mack Loring 
did not wait to ask further questions. At 
something like record speed he was dashing 
down the dark vista of track. 

And as he ran, he gratefully recalled some- 
thing which he had done by purely uncon- 
scious cerebration. As he had come back 
into the wrecked front car after the collision 
had sent him catapulting out through the 
hole in the car-side, he had noted the mass of 
broken windowpane fragments which strewed 
the floor. And in passing he had groped in 
the ruins under his berth for his shoes. By 
a miracle he had found them at once. It had 
been the work of two seconds to slip them 
on to his bare feet as a safeguard against the 
splintered glass. 

Now he was heartily thankful for his own 
impulse in shoeing himself. A mile run, 
barefoot, over a cinder-bristling railroad- 
track, would have been torture. But at the 
same moment came a realization that, in 
spite of his speed, he was chattering with 
cold. The night ait of the Adirondacks was 
biting through his clothes in a most astonish- 
ing fashion. 

Then suddenly he knew why. He was 
still in his pyjamas 1 The rush and excite- 
ment and turmoil had left him no time for 
recollecting the extreme sketchiness of his 
attire. Shod but sockless, pyjama-clad but 
otherwise undressed, carrying a valuable 
watch but not a penny in cash, Mack Loring 
was sprinting through the night in a region 
whose landmarks were unknown to him, 
hundreds of miles from home and bent on an 
all -important service for the very newspaper 
which had just discharged him ! 

THE fact of his incomplete attire gave 
Mack only a momentary jog. So ab- 
sorbed was he in his mission that he 
had scant thought for any lesser matter. 
The story of Simon Carver Stell's sudden 
death would stir the reading public and 
the financial world to the foundations. Its 
first publication in the Palladium, while 
no other morning paper had a word of 
the great event, would be a tremendous 
score for that lucky sheet. It would be 
something for reporters to talk over for 
years to come. And on Mack Loring alone 
hung the Palladium's hopes of winning 
this epoch-marking scoop. Small wonder the 

Digitized by V^OOglC 

runner had not more attention to pay to 
the details of his own costume iust then ! 

Ahead of him, around a bend in the track, 
presently twinkled a feeble light — the oil 
lamp at the end of a tiny station. Mack put 
on a new burst of speed. 

In another minute he was on the station's 
rickety plank platform, brushing past two 
other men who were approaching the station 
from the same direction as himself. 

He flung open the door of the station's 
single room and made lor a railed corner be- 
hind which drowsed a shirt-sleeved station 
agent. Loring was not interested in the 
agent. But he was overwhelmingly inter- 
ested in the telephone instrument which 
stood on the shabby desk at the sleeper's side. 

The slumbering agent was awakened by 
the pound of feet across the floor, and stared 
to see above him a youth clad in striped pale 
lavender and white — a youth with tousled 
hair, and a deep and bleeding scratch on his 
forehead, and with hands crusted with loam, 
and with goodly smudges of the same good 
brown earth smearing his outlandish costume. 
It was enough to make any self-respecting 
station-agent gape ! 

The youth had caught up the telephone 
and was frenziedly pounding the receiver- 
hook up and down to waken the slow oper- 
ator at the other end of the wire. 

" Hi, you 1 " bleated the agent, slumping 
far back in his chair and sputtering wildlv. 
" What in " 

He got no farther. A peevish voice, from 
the rudelv-aroused operator at Central, 
snapped "Well ? " 

14 Give me New York ! " called Mack, 
trying to steady his voice, and to stop 
panting so noisily from his run. " New 
York — Beekman 15,001 ! " 

Then — his goal in sight, and the station 
clock pointing to one-forty-four — Loring 's 
real troubles began. A gnarled hand caught 
him by the shoulder and spun him round. 
He found himself confronting two railroad- 

" Sorry to butt in on you," said one, with 
much firmness, " but this is the Company's 
wire. And I'm here to use it on Company 

As he spoke he snatched the receiver, 
right deftly and unexpectedly, from Loring's 
hand. Mack made a futile grab for it. 

" Sorry, but we've got to report the 
wreck. We'll be using that wire, pretty 
steady, back an' forth, for the next two 
hours or more — what with makin' reports 
an' c'municatin' with the wreckin'-crew an' 
all. We " 

" This watch cost me just one hundred 
dollars," broke in Mack, wheeling on the 
conductor and interrupting that functionary 
just as the iatte^jjyfa^, giving a number to 



The Pyjama Man 

Central, "It s 
your*, if you will 
give me first chance 
at that 'phone, and 
fifteen minutes to 
talk in it." 

"Nothing doing! M 
decreed the conduc- 
tor, " Company orders. All private 
ness has got to keep off this wire till — 

" But- — " 

n I take it you're from th 


t#GW" put in 

Sorry to butt in 
on you/ said one ol 
the railroad-men* 
1 but this is the 
Company** wire. 
And Tm here to 
use it on Com- 
pany business/ * 

the conductor, surveying Mack's apparel and 
his cuts. " I s'pose you want to "phone your 
folks at home that you're O. K. ? Don't 
you worry, QVginJcUrota that just as well 


Albert Payson Terhune 


in the morning. They won't know there's 
been a wreck, till long after that. No 
private telegrams will have a chance to go 
through from here. And the 'phone will 
be busy. It's Company orders to keep 
the papers from finding out about these 
things till all the full official reports are 
in. Your folks won't read about it any- 
where, till after you get time to " 

He discovered he was talking to thin — 
or rather to thick — air. Loring had vanished. 

Mack was too old a newspaper man not 
to have grasped the whole miserable situation. 
By long experience he knew the ways of 
railroad officials in the matter of wrecks. 
And he knew how late and how grudgingly 
would word go forth to the public of this 
present disaster — far off in the wilds, where 
it was to be supposed no reporter could 
come nosing in. The knowledge made 
Loring tenfold more resolved to get his 
message to the Palladium before the final 
edition should go to press ; and it set his 
reportorial wits to working overtime. 

Outside the station a waning moon was 
casting a ghostly pale radiance over the 
world. By its rays Mack took note of 
the point where the single telephone wire 
emerged from the outer wooden wall of the 
station. He saw where it connected with a 
pole which bore but two more such wires. 

To this pole he went. From its base 
he could just see the next pole of the back- 
woods telephone-line ; but it gave him his 
direction. And off he set, through the dim- 
lit woods, following the triple strand of 
wire and its occasional poles. 

LORING travelled as fast as he could. 
After a half-mile of plunging progress 
and of occasional tumbles he traced 
the line to where a single wire once more 
led off from the three and was strung from 
tree to tree into a farther stretch of the 
woods. This was what the man had been 
looking for. Thus, he knew from memories of 
rural telephones, did a wire leave the main 
line to connect with the house of some 
subscriber. And he sought such a house. 

In another five minutes he found it. It 
was a roomy bungalow on the very shores 
of a lake that shimmered eerily in the white 
moonshine. To the landward wall of this 
cottage ran the wire. 

Loring stepped back and looked up at 
the house. Not a light showed in any 
of its diamond-pane windows. A wide 
veranda, supported on rustic posts, girt 
all four sides. Mack's first impulse was 
to rouse the house and to entreat leave to 
use the telephone. Then he hesitated. 
There was an even chance that he would 
bring down upon himself a storm of cross 
abuse from the roused inmates, and 


a command to be gone. It was a far more 
than even chance that he would be forbidden 
to use the telephone. In his present plight 
— scratches, bruises, pyjamas, and all — 
he might very likely be looked on as an 
escaped lunatic. In any event an hour 
or more might pass before he could explain 
matters to everyone's satisfaction, soothe 
the sleepers' ruffled feelings, and get his 
coveted contact with the 'phone — if, before 
that time, the local constable did not have 
him in charge as a dangerous imbecile. 

No, the chances against him were too 
great. He dared not risk them. Already 
his watch told him it was five minutes 
past two. It was getting perilously close 
to press-time. And with the stark need 
came Resolution. 

Kicking off his shoes, he mounted the 
veranda on noiseless feet. Approaching the 
rough-hewn front door, he tried the knob. 
The door was locked. Next he approached 
a window. It too was fastened ; but by 
tearing a thin sliver of wood from one of 
the rusty posts, Mack succeeded in inserting 
the flat bit of splinter between the loosely- 
meeting upper and lower sashes. Then a 
scientific pressure gradually shoved aside 
the old-fashioned and wobbly window-lock. 

Mack raised the unfastened window inch 
by inch and stepped over its sill into an 
apartment that seemed to be at once hall 
and lounging-room. Through the six win- 
dows filtered the moonlight, strong enough 
to make the place dimly visible. Loring 
stood still and listened. His silent advent 
had roused no one. But his work was 
scarcely begun ; he set off on a tip-toed 
search for the telephone. 

Luck, after flouting him outrageously, was 
coming Mack's way at last ; for in the very 
centre of a patch of moonshine from the 
window he saw the 'phone on a bracket 
against the wail. 

Loring cast one more look around the 
tastefully-appointed hall and up the flight 
of stairs which led directly down to its 
centre from the low gallery above. All was 
quiet. Then he picked up the telephone- 
receiver. Apparently Central had been too 
busy to fall asleep again since his earlier 
call. For almost at once he got her crisply 
challenging : " Well ? " 

Speaking almost in a whisper, yet with 
all the distinctness he could muster, Loring 
gave the Palladium's number. He heard 
it repeated. Then followed an endless 
waiting, in the course of which he wearied 
of marshalling his stirring facts in their 
most concise order and began to shift 
wearily from one foot to the other. 

After a century, he heard the hail of a 
voice he recognized — the voice of the 
Palladium switchboard's night-operator. 



The Pyjama Man 

"Miss Muriie!" breathed Mack, raising 
his voice as little as he dared* " This is 
Loring — Mack Loring, . Please put me on 
to the night editor quickly. And, Miss 
Mn die, in case they cut me off before I 
finish, please tell the night editor that 
Simon , Carver Stell was killed an hour ago 
in a railroad wreck, near Hillslope, in the 
Adirondack^ I saw him dead. I was on 
the same train. I'm 'phoning from there/- 

After another interminable half-minute 
he heard himself hailed wonder ingly by 
Doty, the night editor, to whom he had 
bidden good-bye a bare twenty- four hours 
earlier. But Mack cut in unceremoniously 
on the other's questions by announcing the 
news he bore, and Ms manner of getting it. 

He ceroid hear Doty yell the tidings 
aloud and summon a man to the 'phone 
to take down Loring's story in record time. 
The rest was a mere matter of routine. In 
terse, concise sentences, Mack related the 
tale of the wreck and of St ell's manner of 

dying. He did not s:ek for fine language, 
but spat forth the baldly potent facts, 
in their order. The office could whip the 
tale into shape, if need be — and if there were 
time, He ended, with the names of the three 
dead men, the numbers of the two demolished 
engines, and such other items of the dis^ 
aster as might be used to follow the all- 
import ant fact — the fact of St ell's demise. 
By experience he could visualize the scene 
at the wire's other end, the snatching of 
page after page from the man taking down 
the startling news, and the shouted orders 
to the press-room. 

After fifteen minutes of rapid talk, the 
story was told. Loring all at once felt 
very -tired and very cold and a little sick 
from reaction. His work was done. His 
scoop was scored, He slumped. 

As he gave the usual " Good night " which 
marks the ending of such dictation, the man 
at the other end interrupted : — 

" Wait, old man ! Mr, Roscoe '*•* 


by Google 

Original from 

Albert Payson Terhune 


wants to speak to you. I'll switch you to his 
office. He wants to speak to you about " 

u Well, I don't want to speak to hiin/ J 
snapped Mack, crossly, " TeJl him so. 
He w 

But evidently the connection had alreidy 
been made. For now Loring recognized 
the managing editor's detested voice on the 
'phone. Yet somehow there was a certain 
difference in it from its normal tones, 

" Loring ? " the managing editor was 
saying, " You don't need to be told what 
a scoop you've given us." 

" No/' growled Mack, " I don't." 

" I sacked you/' went on Roscoe, less 
jauntily than usual. " And you get back 
at me by giving us this great scoop. It — 
it makes me feel like revising my list of 
the world's great men, Loring; and of giving 
myself a lower place on it. I don't mind 
saving I feel like a yd low dog. Let it go 
at that* Your job's waiting for you when 
you finish your holiday- You don't need 
to be told that, old man. And there'll 
be a two-hundred -dollar bonus here for 
you, too, for to night's work. We- " 

A blinding flare of light seared Mack 
Loring's eyeballs. The dim room leaped 
into vivid illumination as a hand turned 
on the electric switch from the gallery 
above. Loring dropped the receiver and spun 
about, blinking and dazed, 

At the head of the stairs stood a girl, a 
filmy n-'eligee swathed about her slim 

* Hands up, please ! * came the mandate 

in a very sweet but somewhat tremulous 

undertone. * 1 heard whisperings, and 1 

got up in time to catch &t least one 

you 1 

body, a levelled pistol in one outflung hand, 
The pistol's black muzzle was trained on 
the harlequin- clad Loring. 

" Hands up, please .! " came the mandate 
in a very sweet but somewhat tremulous 
undertone* " I heard whisperings down 
there, and I got up in time to catch at lea: it 
one of you ! I- ,p 

She paused, the sweet voice trailing into 
silence as she took in the details of her 
captive's aspect. Then her eyes wandered 
to his face — and the pistol fell to the floor 
With a clatter, 

" Mack Loring I " she cried, incredulous. 
" Mack ! " 

BUT before she had spoken the first word, 
Loring knew into whose cottage he had 
broken. Forgetful of his airy attire and 
his general look of disreputableness, he was 
bounding up the stairs toward her. 

•' Eve I " he exulted. " Eve ! I've still 
got my job I And Ive got two hundred 
dollars to spend on an engagement-ring. 
Honest, I have, Eve t Won't you marry 
me, sweetheart ! You must ! " 

Eve Nevis took one long and wondering 
look at the dishevelled figure. Then she 

" Marry yon ? '* she repeated, dreamily* 
'Why — why — yes! Of course, I will. At 
least — at least, 1 will, if I don't change my 
mind when I wake up. For, of course, 
this is a dream. No one in real life ever 
looked one- tenth as — as impossible as you 

do. I Oh, there's dad coming t He 

generally sleeps through everything, too. 
So it must be a dream. Just the same, I'm 
sure hell be able to — to lend you some — 
some cleaner ones than those I " 




ste/D into the Unknown 



The sideric pendulum has been known 
to Spiritualists as a medium of communi- 
cation. There was an account in the 
papers about a year ago of how a jewel 
was lost at a garden party, and how the 
daughter of the host by this method was 
able to indicate where it could be found. 
But these indications as to sex, etc., are, so 
far as I know, new, and of very great 
interest. I tried it fourteen times, without a 
failure, upon photographs, in several cases 
concealing the photograph so that I did 
not myself know, until after the ring had 
given the circle or the ellipse, what the 
sex was. It never failed. I find on testing 
other materials apart from sex that one 
gets a constant result— e.g., gold and amber 
are circular or male, silver is oval, steel and 
bronze are almost longitudinal. Photo- 
graphs are, on the whole, better than 
letters, and recent letters better than old 
ones, but the latter respond for a long time. 
I had a male circle from a letter of 1 776. 
It is a score for Mr. Pussyfoot that the only 
substance which I have found give the 

evil reaction — that is, from left to nght — 
is Alcohol 

I agree with the writer that this 
bears strongly upon the Divining-rod. 
Even more strongly does it bear upon 
psychometry when a person with sensi- 
tive perceptions takes, we will say, a 
lock of hair and derives from it much 
knowledge about the owner. If so in- 
direct a thing as a photograph can give 
definite information, how much more 
might an actual portion of the personality 
be expected to do ? 

One cannot, so far as I can see, claim 
the matter as bearing directly upon 
Spiritualism, but it strongly supports the 
existence of forces outside our present 
scientific knowledge. These seem to be of 
a very subtle personal and psychic nature, 
which brings them into the same class 
with those other forces of etherealized 
and refined matter forming the basis of 
the physical phenomena which inexperi- 
enced people have for so long derided 
and denied. 

The Pendulum and tU History. 

IT was a warm, dreamy summer night. A 
tall, middle-aged man sat in his study 
before a large writing-desk, his glances 
wandering idly over the variety of 
articles on which he had been experi- 
menting with the sideric pendulum. A 
solitary lamp cast -flickering waves of yellow 
light over them, while he himself was left in 
a half-shadow. 

The name of the man was Frederick 

Digitized by V^iOOQ IC 

Kallenberg, unknown at that time to the 
world at large, but destined to be mentioned 
in the near and distant future with that 
of the propounder of the -i Od " theory, 
and the discoverers of the X-rays and 

He sat and thought to what new experi- 
ments he might next put the sideric pendu- 
lum. At his right hand lay a photograph 
of his wife, who had gone the long way from 
which nobodjr ever returns — as is commonly 


The Sideric Pendulum 


supposed. Mechanically, without any 
clear expectation of results, acting, per- 
haps, on a subconscious purpose, he 
placed it in front of him and for a little 
while held the pendulum over it, 

What happened ? 

Well, the wonder ! The wonder will 
astound the 
world, justify a 
hundred times 
those who al- 
ways defended 
metaphysics as 
an undisputable 
reality, and put 
the materialist 
and other scep- 
tics, who thought 
they could laugh 
and scorn the 
divining-rod out 
of existence, 
absolutely and 
finally in the 
wrong. And this 
is meant in all 
seriousness, too t 

For in the 
hand of Kallen- 
berg, on this 
summer night, 
the sideric pen- 
dulum proved 
that the photo- 
graph of his 
wife, whom he 
had buried not 
long before — 
and, for the 
matter of that, 
the photograph 
of any and every 
person alive or 
dead, may he or 
sh? have died 
but yesterday 
or a hundred 
years ago — is 
not a dead re- 
flection of the 
original, but is 

And, pray, what is the sideric pendulum * 

To answer that question scientifically 
needs a somewhat longer explanation, 
which I shah* attempt farther on. But to 
answer it in a way that everybody 
may grasp at once the stupendous 
importance of this discovery, let me 
say that it is a never-failing divining- 
rod you can use at home, and not only 
for the finding of water and metals 
or other 4i dead " bodies, but also for 
the exploration and determination of 

This photograph shows 
using the 

ermmation 01 


the character, sex, and morality of any 

and every human or animal being from 

photographs, handwriting, drawings, m 

fact, everything that has received the 

radio-active emanation from that body. 

It is not a new thing, either — part of it 
at least: a fact which makes the dis- 
covery not any 
the less great 
and sensation- 
ally important. 
It may have 
been known in 
some form or 
other to the 
human race 
from the dawn 
of ages, as every 
occult thing has 
been known, 
But please 
understand that 
the sideric pen- 
cl u 1 u m is no 
longer an occult 
thing. In his- 
tory, however, 
we cannot trace 
it back farther 
than to the 
Romans of the 
early centuries. 
Under the Em- 
peror V a I e n s 
(364-378 a,d), 
so wc are told— 
several leading 
citizens were 
accused of 
having con- 
spired against 
him and tried 
to have the 
name of his sue* 
cessor revealed 
to them through 
the sideric pen- 
dulum. They 
had used a ring, 
which, by means 
of a thread, held 
between the 
fingers of one hand, was suspended over a 
vessel of some metal. In its side, forming 
a circle, were engraved the letters of the 
alphabet. The ring began to swing round, 
* but stopped at certain letters, and thus 
the name sought for was disclosed. 

What the Pendulum Does. 

The emanation of every body has an 
individuality of its own, producing 
different, well-specified movements of 
the pendulum. The basic movements 



the correct 

position (or 


The Sideric Pendulum 

are the circle and the ellipse, or oval. 
The circle signifies the male and positive, 
the ellipse the female and negative — the 
terms male and female to be understood not 
only as an abstract, but in the ordinary 
sense of sex, when the movements are caused 
by a human or animal body or even a 
photograph of them. 

When Kallenberg made his sensational 
step into the unknown, conquering for exact 
science a large part of what up to that time 
had been assigned to the realm of meta- 
physics or occultism ; when on that night 
he held the pendulum over the photograph 
of his wife, supposed to be nothing but a 
piece of dead cardboard, he found it to be 
herself, her M soul," causing the pendulum to 
swing in certain well-defined geometrical 

It is not the purpose of this article to 
describe his subsequent experiments in 
detail, but to report the facts he estab- 
lished for everybody to reproduce at leisure 
and to his own satisfaction, for they are 
not — or at least not in any remarkable 
degree — subject to special gifts or medium- 
ship of the operator. 

The basic fact of all what Kallenberg 
has proved is that all living bodies emanate 
a substance which at the moment of expo- 
sure to the camera is absorbed by the plate 
or film and conveyed from there to every 
positive print made from it, no matter 
whether they number thousands and thou- 
sands. This — it may be well to mention 
here — applies, however, only to photo- 
graphic prints, not to reproductions of them 
in magazines and otherwise, since the latter 
have not been in contact with the original 
through the intermediary of the film. 

That much proved, other experiments 
following as a matter of course showed 
that everything having been in contact 
with a living being, human or animal — 
handwriting, articles of clothing, especially 
underwear, jewellery, boots and shoes, for 
instance — holds and reflects these emanations 
in a way unfailingly individual to that 
body and strong enough to move the pendu- 
lum even if a pile of books or other obstacles 
are inserted between it and the object 
experimented on. 

In all these cases it will be found that 
over objects produced or used by a female 
the pendulum will swing in a narrow ellipse 
(an oval), while the male sex is indicated 
by a circular swing, even if by nature of 
the substance different movements should 
occur. The radiation of the subject domin- 
ates the radiation of the object. 

Take a wedding-ring, for instance. Kal- 
lenberg used the one worn by his wife for 
twenty years. Being of pure gold the 
pendulum should have moved in a circle, 

by t^ 



as the character of gold is masculine. 
But having absorbed the personal mag- 
netism of the wearer for so long a time, 
it showed the female sign of the ellipse. 

Again, suppose in a much -used leather 
case containing documents are kept a 
number of white sheets of paper. When 
bought at the dealer's they would produce 
no movements at all. But having for a 
considerable time absorbed the emanations 
of the owner of the case, they would 
swing the pendulum exactly as the owner 
would himself. 

Further, pure silk swings the pendulum 
in a wide circle. If worn by a man the 
movements would be the same. Kallen- 
berg, in experimenting with the tie of a 
young man who in a state of unsound 
mind had committed suicide, found, how- 
ever, the pendulum swinging in the same 
confused way over it as it did over the 
photograph and handwriting of deceased. 

How to Use the Pendulum. 

Take a smooth silk or cotton thread or 
woman's hair, about fifteen inches long. 
Tie a little noose in one end, taking care 
to cut the loose end of the thread close to 
the knot, to prevent leakage of the mag- 
netic current into the air. At the other 
end fix a wedding or other ring without 
stones, a golden collar- stud, or any like 
article. Other metals will answer the pur- 
pose also, but gold is considered the best. 
Here, too, the loose end of the knot must be 
trimmed off . Then push the noose on the 
first joint of the forefinger, which it must 
fit tightly. It is not sufficient to wind the 
thread around the finger. 

Now the operator, if he has not done so 
before, divests himself of every metallic 
article, such as watch, keys, coins, pocket- 
knife, studs, etc., as they might interfere 
with the movements of the pendulum, that 
is, stop them or lead to deviations which 
would tend to wrong conclusions. For the 
same reason no metallic articles should be 
in too close proximity with the place where 
he intends to carry out the experiments. 
Also, which is important, he must take care 
to stand true in the line of the meridian, 
with the face turned south. The right hand, 
palm downward, forefinger extended and the 
other fingers closed, is raised over the object 
just high enough so that the ring is sus- 
pended one or two inches above it. The 
left arm, being of opposite polarization, is 
best held at the back. The picture on 
page 181 shows the correct position. The 
same applies to the thumb, which must not 
therefore touch the forefinger. For a better 
insulation a newspaper or sheet of white 
paper may be placed under the object. 
The pendulum must be held steady, which 
Original from 


The Sideric Pendulum 


will not be found very difficult even if the 
experiments are continued for an hour 
or two. 

As soon as the pendulum has come to rest 
over the object it enters the orbit or curve of 
its radiation of ions and begins to swing — 
usually after a minute or two. All bodies — 
except corpses, over which the pendulum 
would remain immovable — send out electro- 
magnetic ions. 

The circle stands for male sex. Over 
minerals, differentiated by the radius and 
force of the swing in each case, gold, pyrites, 
and others. Water: over quiet water — 
water in a glass, ponds, lakes, etc., or their 
photographs— the swing is quiet and regular ; 
over rapids, falls, etc., it is agitated. Just 
try it over a photograph of the Niagara 

Ellipse : Female sex. Over minerals it 
stands for silver, lead, and others. 

Straight line or narrow ellipse east to 
west : Moral degeneration, abandonment 
to vice, lying habit, etc. Beware of that 
sign ! 

The Pendulum Over Letters, Oil-Paintings' 
Drawings, Handwritten Music, etc 

Anybody having read the foregoing care- 
fully will be able now to determine at once 
without any difficulty the sex of a kitten or 
newly-hatched chicken, or whether a steed 
shown in a photograph is a horse or a mare, 
and a bird in a tree male or female. But 
significant as that may seem and undoubtedly 
is, it takes second place in importance to the 
fact that a few lines or even a single word 
written a hundred or some hundred years 
ago will reveal to the experimentator through 
the pendulum — just as the photograph does 
— the sex, health or ill-health, morality, 
temper, and sentiments of the writer. And 
drawings and paintings are quite as loose- 
tongued. For when they were produced the 
" I " of the originator, as it then lived and 
thought and felt, entered the canvas or 
parchment or paper to stay there for ever ; 
to move this modern divining-rod of an epi- 
gonic explorer of the unknown hundreds of 
years thereafter, and to show to the sceptic, 
unbelieving world that life is not a thing to 
vanish at the moment of death. 

Now everybody will be able to test the 
sincerity of a writer of a letter. If a poor 
nephew should write to a rich uncle: " My 
dearest uncle," and the pendulum should 

move in an ellipse over it — the contrary sign 
— the uncle would do well to take it at a 
discount only. Using the typewriter will not 
prevent detection, as the emanations of a 
writer are received and retained by the type- 
written sheet as well. Anonymous writers 
will have a hard time now, as control 
tests over other specimens of their hand- 
writing or over photographs may establish 
their identity. Captain Dreyfus could not 
have been convicted in Paris if the sideric 
pendulum had been held over his handwriting 
and the infamous bordereau. 

As every energy is strongest at its 
source, the swing of the pendulum if lowered 
enough to rest on the photograph or hand- 
writing will often be turned round in a whirl 
or attracted so powerfully by the magnetic 
force that it stands still. 

The Pendulum as Egg-Tester* 

Immense sums of money will be saved 
every year if breeders will test their eggs. 
Millions of unfertile eggs are annually lost 
to human consumption and disappointment 
caused to breeders, thus wasting time, 
energy, and money. The pendulum does not 
move over an unfertile egg, but swings in a 
circle or an ellipse over those that will hatch 
a cockerel or pullet respectively. So breeders 
can now determine the proportion of the 
sexes they want. 

The advocates of the old-fashioned divin- 
ing-rod are entirely vindicated now, for 
the penetrating power of ionic emanation is 
almost incredible. It does not make any 
difference whether a photograph or hand- 
writing is tested openly or in a sealed en- 
velope handed, perhaps, by a friend — which, 
moreover, would prove the bona fides of the 
pendulum to any doubter. And if a pile of 
books or magazines is placed on top of the 
object the pendulum will act just the same. 

We have, therefore, in the sideric pendulu m 
a precise and dependable divining-rod for the 
prospecting for minerals or water. 

In view of all these facts it is not saying 
too much to call Kallenberg's discovery a 
new step into the unknown. The practical 
value of it, which seems almost as great as 
the possibilities it opens for further research, 
is sufficient justification for its publication, 
notwithstanding the apparent danger that 
the revelations of the sideric pendulum may 
be misused and misconstrued by irresponsible 

by Google 

Original from 


PERPLEXITIES. By Henry E. DuJency. 


Here is a little puzzle that I devised recently as a 
memorial of those chess problemists and players who 
fell in the Great War, It is an im possible position as 
it stands* but by 
merely making 
two of the bishops 
change places the 
position may be 
made possible and 
White can then 
mate in two 
moves* Which two 
bishops change 
places ? 

A few words of 
should make it 
quite easy for the 
reader to solve. 
If each player in a game has ten bishops and 
there have been only four captures on each side, 
then (i) each player must have an odd number of 
bishops running on each colour ; that is 9 and i, 
or 7 and 3, or 5 and 5 ; and {2} each player must 
have the same number running on each colour. 
At present White has 6 running on white and 4 on 
black, while Black has 4 running on white and 6 on 
black* The position is therefore impossible, as it 
breaks both conditions. A, little thought will now 
show which two bishop change phces. 

WtllLfi speaking to a friend in the street the other 
day, T drew his attention to a man walking along on 
the other side, 

l * There goes poor Binks/* I said. "I am afraid he 
is a good-for-nothing*" 

'* Excuse me/ 1 my friend replied, M but I happen to 
know that he is good for something. He is certainly 
very good at — at — I've forgotten the word, but 1 re- 
member that it has three pairs of similar Letters 
together, like the f s and e*s in coffee, which, of course, 
has only two pairs." 

I immediately suggested " goffer- fatftba//," but he 
snid the three pairs were all close together, like the two 
pairs in '* coffee." Can you discover what Binks was 

g rod at ? 

515,— A PEG PUZZLE. 
Here is a little puzzle that I recently had made for 
a juvenile friend who likes such things. It is easier 

than it looks, if 
you use a little 
judgment, and it 
can conveniently 
be tried with 
counters on a pre- 
pared diagram. 
The illustration re- 
presents a square 
mahogany board 
with fort y-n i n e 
holes in it. There 
are ten pegs, to be 
placed in the posi- 
tions shown, and 
the puzzle is to 
remove only three of these pegs to different holes so 
that the ten shall form five rows with four pegs in 
every row. Which three would you move and where 
would you place them } 

' ■ 

• * 

* m 

1 * 

* • 

, & 

- 1. 

> • 

1 3*- * 

m • i 

I . 

ȣ . 

& • k 


Fouft brothers were comparing the number of sheep 
that they owned. It was found that Claude had ten 
more sheep than Dan, If Claude gave a quarter of his 
sheep to Ben, then Claude and Adam would together 
have the same number as Ben and Dan together. If, 
then, Adam #ave one-third to Ben, and lien gave a 
quarter of what he then held to Claude, who then 
passed on a fifth of his holding to Dan, and Ben then 
divided one quarter of the number he then possessed 
equally amongst Adam, Claude, and Ban, they would all 
have an equal number ol sheep. How many sheep did 
each son possess ? 

517.— LA GUERRE, 

This is a new missing word puzzle, sent me by 
T* K. All the missing words contain the same five 
letters I — 

In future years French schoolboys, as they study 
and * .... their history lessons, will contemplate 
with horror the record of cruel deeds committed by 
the invading Hun, who did not « .... the rifle or 
. , . , # on helpless non-combatants, and in whose 
track .... * and ruin followed* On the fields of 
France the clustering vine was ruthlessly cut down, as 

well as trees on which and apples grew. The 

heroic deeds ol the French soldiers need not be en- 
graved on or granite, but the Hun, however 

he . . ♦ « , down by cunning words the magnitude of 
his guilt, . , . ♦ T only the ignominy ol his deeds. 

Solutions to La&t Month's Pussies 

The sentence should be punctuated as follows : 
If " is ]l is not M is," and *" is not M is * is," what js it 
u is not J is, and what is it * l is " is not, li ,+ is not pl 
is ifc is r" 

THE correct interpretation is "A FOND LOVER," 
That is lo say, A F on D, L over. 

The cletk pointed out that the sentence should have 
read, ** As he reinstated, as herein slated* the man in 
question,' etc 

by L^OOgle 


The diagram 
shows how the 
Spade may he cut 
into three parts 
that will fit [0 
get her and form a 

Many corresijondents are informed that a large 
collection of the " Perplexities " that have appeared 
in these pages up to the dose of the year nji$ will be 
found preserved in " Amusements in Mathematics * f 
and " The Canterbury Puzzles : and Other Curious 
Problems," by Henry E. Dudeney (Thomas Nelson 
and Sons, Limited, js. 6d. each). Those that have 
appeared during the past five and a halt years will lie 
reprinted, with much additional matter, in a new 
volume in preparation- 

Original from 

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they aid efficiency and are a 
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1 9 





Ungmal from 


Sept-, 1920. 

by Google 

Original from 





[Set pag* 189.) 

Original from 


. — v - 



©r / 

—— 7 

f/fusLrabec/ by 

V— • 


DUNCANSGN, the artist 
newly risen to fame, 
and his wife were 
giving a fancy-dress 
dance. It was really a carnival 
in costume, and the invitations 
were decorated with a' drawing by the famous 
Robert Duneanson himself- a galaxy of 
pierrots, columbines, and harlequins seem- 
ingly sweeping the prospective guests to the 
very studio in Fulham where the painter 
and his wife lived. 

And what a studio it was, this ancient 
tarn converted into a workshop and treasure- 
house by his wealth and taste, for though 
he had not won fame early, and had known 
Lad days of hardship and struggle in Paris, 
he was now on the crest of the wave. His 
original paintings commanded above five 
figures, and royalties on reproduction were 
amassed in such sums as testified to their 
popularity the world over. And the man 
himself, vivid in mind and health, married 
to the woman he adored, and surrounded bv 
a group of friends who loved him for his wit, 
his generosity, his charm, was the personifica- 
tion of success. 

He stood now, arrayed in the costume of 
the Clown in "I Pagl'iacci," waiting for his 
guests, and for his wife to join him ; and he 
moved about the room, giving it last touches 
with a practised hand. 

Built above was an all-round gallery, from 
v..i ,,._„ 

which hung silken carpets and 
Italian brocades. Their colours 
were mellowed by giant candles 
glowing in antique candelabra^ 

All manner of beautiful things were 
to be seen ; Gothic wood -carvings, 
marble saints, subtle enamels, paintings, and 
clusters of roses in Chinese jars, * 

Presently he grew restless and impatient, 
waiting for the one without whom he could 
never be satisfied for long. Besides, he had 
something to tell her — perhaps even to 
confess ; an impulsive action that had seemed 
nothing at the time* lust a stray gleam of 
kindness" thrown to a fellow- mortal — an 
invitation to the dance to an old friend. 

It occurred to hirn that Isabel might not 
see it in the same light. What a fool he had 
been to tell her, as he had done in those 
marvellous early days of courtship, . of the 
few Jove- passages that had taken place be- 
tween him and little Cyprienne, his friend and 
fellow- worker in those now far-off Bohemian 
days in Paris. There had been nothing at 
all between them save a slight and passing 
tenderness ; but women understand these 
things so little, and wives claim so much ; 
the radiant present is not enough for them, 
they want the dim, mysterious past as well. 
When he had come suddenly face to face 
with Cyprienne in Bond Street, she had 
seemed like a creature in a dream, and he had 
reproached himself for not being better 


1 88 

The Heart of Columbine 

pleased to see her ; and in the fear that she 
would think his good fortune had changed 
him, he had bidden her to their festivity. 

Almost he wished he had not done so, and 
if Isabel did not come down soon there would 
hardly be a moment to let her understand. 

" Isabel ! " he called. " Aren't you ready ? " 

Even as he spoke a door opened in the 
gallery above, and she stepped down the 
Jacobean staircase, a lovely Columbine in 
white, with no colour to break the ethereal 
charm of her appearance. She stood a 
moment, a fantastic vision of delight against 
the dark background. 

Duncanson felt a thrill as he watched her. 

" You are wonderful," he said, coming to 
the foot of the staircase and looking up at 
her. Then the critic in him spoke, and he 
added : " But perhaps you have too much 

" Oh, Bobby ! " she protested. 

41 Yes, a little too much. You should be 
pale, white, like a flower, mysterious." He 
brought out his handkerchief, and drawing 
her to him he wiped away the false bloom. 

" You axi too beautiful to need it," he 
said, answering the protest in her eyes, and 
bending his head he kissed her, bringing the 
radiant colour to her face in a rosy glow. 

Together they walked about the studio, 
when suddenly she stopped with a little cry 
of surprise. 

" What is this ? " she asked, pointing to a 
figure of Buddha squatting solemnly on a low 
window-shelf. It was carved in alabaster, a 
Siamese idol, and its surface* was slightly 

" I found it to-day," explained Duncanson, 
carelessly, "and brought it back in a taxi. 
It was only eight guineas." 

Isabel stared at it a moment, then she 

" I can't bear those things ; I am afraid of 
them, they are so unlucky." 

" Nonsense, darling. It's a nice piece of 
work." He patted the idol as he spoke. 

" It isn't nice, it's hateful. When I was 
a little girl I was in India, and I have always 
had that feeling about those Buddhas ever 

" I didn't know you were superstitious," 
he said, absently. Time was getting on, and 
he had not yet spoken about Cyprienne. 

" Won't you please have that horrible 
thing taken away ? " she persisted. 

" No, no, I won't encourage you to be 
silly. Listen, Isabel, I have got something 
to tell you." He paused a moment, watching 
the pretty child as she hovered irresolutely 
by the sinister-looking idol. 

" I met Cyprienne to-day, the girl I used to 
know in Paris, and she seemed rather down 
on her luck, so I asked her to come in to- 

Digitized by dOOQk' 

Isabel's face changed. 

" You asked her, that girl ! Oh, Bobby, 
why ? " 

" Why not, my dear ? It isn't very 
pleasant to be alone and friendless in London, 
is it ? " 

HER lovely face hardened. She was 
taking it badly. He might have 
known she would, but he felt con- 
fident in his power to bring her to reason if 
only there was time. 

" You know why," she said, averting her 
eyes. " If you have forgotten, I haven't. 
I remember all you told me, how you used 
to go about together, and how — how you 
cared for her." 

" No, Isabel, no," he said ; " don't get any 
ideas of that kind in your head. Do you 
think I should have asked her here if every- 
thing hadn't been square and above-board ? " 

" But I know, I know," she persisted. 
" Oh ! Bobby, I can't bear it, it will spoil all 
the pleasure of the evening for me." 

11 I tell you," he began, angrily, " we 
were just good friends and often together in 
those days. I was jolly lonely, too, some- 
times. You wouldn't want me to turn my 
back on her now, you can't expect it. And, 
Isabel, remember you must be nice to her 
for my sake, just this once." 

He could not have chosen his words worse. 

" You had no business to do it," she said. 
" And I know Lady Hackett and Lily Creath 
will hate meeting her." 

" Lily Creath, your new friend ! " he said, 
scornfully. " Well, if she comes here she 
must be willing to meet anyone I choose to 

She gave him a glance of speechless anger, 
but there was no time to say more, for a 
motor was heard to stop outside. He tried 
to catch her to him with a reassuring word, 
but she broke away and went to the door. 

The orchestra took its place in a corner, 
and began to play the quick, nervous music 
of the day. As if by magic the dimly-lit 
studio was quickened into life by the brightly- 
dressed people, their laughing chatter hum- 
ming in rhythm with the music. 

They were in all the ^endless varieties of 
costumes, the extravagant hues of their 
dress glinting in a fine effect, and contrasting 
sharply, to please the keen eye of the host. 
It was an intoxicating make-believe world 
into which they entered, giving wing to jest 
and folly, and bringing the light heart which 
beats its message to the cap and bells. 

Duncanson led the way to the punch-bowl, 
and before long the dark floor of the studio 
swung with vivacious humanity, a hundred 
of all sorts come to make merry. 

A small, slight woman worked her way 
towards the painter. She was very French, 


Richard Fletcher 


with a black satin dress and a chree-cornered 
hat, and she was beautifully shod. 

" Cyprienne ! " was Duncanson's greeting, 
and at once they spoke in French, he with 
the British accent, and she with the soft, 
swift manner of the Parisienne. 

" It was kind of you to invite me. It is 
a wonderful soirie." 

" Have you seen my wife ? " asked Robert, 

'• Mats oui," answered Cyprienne. " She is 
very pretty, but she was not glad to see me." 

" Nonsense, Cyprienne, of course she was 
glad. And how are you getting on ? " he 
asked, as he gave her a glass of punch, 
which she sipped daintily. 

*• Not bad. I am a vendeuse in a modiste's 
in Hanover Square. 1 can live at least. 
And you, you are now a success," she went 
on, her large dark eyes fixed on the dancing 

u And these smart people/* she mur- 
mured. " I heard their names at the door, 
and then I thought ot the Bobby of the olden 
days, a student in Paris." 

M Those were happy days, too." Duncan- 
son smiled over Ins remembrances. 4l And 
you were so good to me ! What a rotten 
conceited kid I must have been ! " 

•• You were a dear gamin,' said the girl. 
*• I always knew you would do well for 
yourself. You were so independent, so frank, 
so intelligent." 

•' Oh, very ! " laughed the artist. I§ I had 
cheek, if that's what you mean." 

" Du toupi, out." 

THEY were absorbed in their reminis- 
cences ; and a few yards off Isabel 
watched them, her lips trembling, a 
dull sense of resentment growing in her 
heart. How dared she lean towards Bobby 
in this way, as if — as if he belonged to her ! 
She stood, dazed and motionless, watching 
them, near enough to see every gesture, yet 
out of earshot. 

" You remember," said Duncanson, *' when 
I started on a huge canvas, and you posed 
for me as the Spirit of France ? That was 
cheek, if vou like 1 I was one-and-twenty at 
the time." 

" Yes," rallied the Frenchwoman; "but 
I also remember that you did not paint me 
in a red, white, and blue robe. Even then 
you were original." 

They stood at the buffet, on the fringe of 
the one-stepping masqueraders. They seemed 
to be away from the frivolous present, back 
again in Paris when both were young and 
romantic and visionary. 

" I never thought I should see you again," 
she said. " I am glad and sorry : glad that 
you are happy, and sorry because it hurts 
me to see it." 

by L^OOgle 

" Hurts you ! " he repeated, stupidly. 

" Yes. When a woman like me loves, it 
is for ever." 

" 1 am sorry," he said. * Don't tell me I 
have behaved badly to you. It is difficult 
now to remember what I said : it seems like 
another world. No, no, I don't mean that, 
dear," he added, hastily ; 14 only don't lay a 
remorse upon me that perhaps I don't 

* No," she said, ' there is no need for that. 
1 always knew it was hopeless, and there is 
much consolation. Just to have loved you 
without return is a great memory for me." 

" Let's be friends," said Duncanson, moved 
and bewildered by this sudden resurrection 
of the past. But even as he spoke he knew 
it was impossible ; she must step out of his 
life, as long ago he had stepped into hers. 
They were ships that pass in the night, and 
even now he had talked to her too long. 
For the music had stopped with a noisy 
crash, and out of the disappearing throng 
stepped Isabel Duncanson, followed by two 
resplendent women. Cyprienne drew back 
a step, her black eyes fixed on Isabel as the 
latter spoke to Her husband. 

'" You know Lady Hackett, Robert, and 
Mrs. Creath i " 

Her voice was strained, and the little face 
from which he had wiped the rouge was 
dead white. She had come to interrupt as 
well as to mtroduce ; in fact, she could not 
keep away from the side of the man who for 
the first time was torturing her. 

Lady Hackett was a marvellous vision 
so far as her attire was concerned, and with- 
out being asked she at once put Robert in 
possession of the fact that she was Queen 
Carnival. She was in tissue of gold, a forest 
of paradise plumes in her hair, and a great 
row of pearls, that must have been worth a 
fortune, round her neck. 

On the other hand, Mrs. Creath was very 
subdued in a velvet cloak with three capes, 
a short mask from which her black eyes 
gleamed, and a small hat. 

" How amusing ! " observed this lady, 
turning to her hostess. " What lovely cos- 
tumes ! " And then the two women whis- 
pered together, while Mrs. Creath gave vent 
to rippling laughter that might have been 
admiration or mockery. 

Suddenly obeying an impulse, and oblivious 
of Isabel's almost passionate gaze, the 
painter drew Cyprienne forward and effected 
an introduction. The French girl made ber 
pretty little bow and smiled, showing a flash 
of white teeth as Duncanson alluded to their 
old friendship ; but Lady Hackett gave the 
rude stare that passed with her for dignity, 
while Mrs. Creath looked closely at Cyprienne, 
as if recalling a memory. 

" Haven't 1 seen you somewhere before ? " 



The Heart of Columbine 

** Around the gallery the revellers raced. Once on the floor again the momentum increased. 

woman's voice. 

Original from 

by Google 

Richard Fletcher 


Then there was a crash — a scream — and pleasure had vanished. * My pearls I "' cried 
* Oh, my pearls I ' lt 

by Google 

Original from 


The Heart of Columbine 

she asked. " Have you been in England 
long, or have we met abroad ? " 

" I saw Madame yesterday," replied 
Cyprienne, '* when she came to Valerie's to 
see their sable coat." 

" Really ? Were you looking at it also ? " 

" No, Madame, I was the vendeuse ; I had 
the pleasure of showing you the coat, and 
almost the pleasure of selling it to you, but 
the price was too high." 

" Ah, to be sure ! Fancy your being there ! 
I could no more afford that coat than fly." 

If anyone was embarrassed, it was not 
Cyprienne, and Duncanson felt a glow of 
admiration for her so great that he tried to 
catch Isabel's eye to share the feelihg with 
her. He did indeed exchange a look, but 
hers was so peculiar that it baffled him. 

To make a diversion he helped Lady 
Hackett to some punch, saying, " Whatever 
you do, you must not leave before we dance 
the Sarabande." 

• " What on earth is that ? " asked Lady 

" Oh, it's just a rag ; we dance it after 
supper. It is like cracking the whip. You 
will stay for it ? " 

" Of course we will, we have only just 
come." Lady Hackett turned to Mrs. 
Creath. " You will stay too, Lily ? " 

" I should love it," answered Mrs. Creath, 
as she was whirled away ; and Robert, 
encircling the generous waist of Lady 
Hackett, left Isabel alone. She watched her 
guests, especially Cyprienne, and her gaze 
was one of strange and firm dislike. Then 
she herself was claimed as a partner, and 
everyone danced till supper. 

" The Sarabande now ! " cried the artist, 
standing up among the others, many of 
whom were sitting on the floor in the dearth 
of chairs. He walked to his drum and beat 
it, repeating " The Sarabande ! Choose your 
partners ! " 

THERE were murmurs of inquiry as the 
revellers put aside their plates and 
glasses and ranged themselves in a 
chaotic group in the middle of the studio. 
Duncanson ordered the candle lights to be 
extinguished, so that only two great Persian 
lanterns showed palely from the high ceiling. 
Then he called out for everyone to tread 
the Sarabande. The orchestra began to play 
weird march music with muted strings. 
Isabel saw all her guests apportioned before 
she took her place, yet in the dimness she 
could just see the French girl dancing with 
her husband. 

" Ready to go 1 " cried Duncanson. This 
was a signal for the lanterns overhead to 
yield their pallid lights. The studio was 
almost in darkness, so that the forms moved 
ghostily to the rhythm of the strange music. 

Perhaps the starlight percolated through the 
windows of the roof, but the mysterious 
effect was very fine, and there were little 
cries of approval. 

Faster and faster the orchestra intoned 
the music. Duncanson led the guests back- 
wards and forwards, and his sharp twists 
sent the end of the line reeling and pitching. 
He steadied it by dashing up the staircase, 
leading the crew. Around the gallery the 
revellers raced, picturesque, amused, be- 
wildered. Down again they ran, amid much 
confusion. Once on the floor again the 
momentum increased. Then there was a 
crash — a scream — and pleasure had vanished. 

•• What is it ? " cried Duncanson. " Any- 
one hurt ? " 

" My pearls ! " cried a woman's voice. 
" Oh, my pearls ! " 

" Turn up the lights ! " said the painter, 

Isabel was still on the staircase when the 
two lanterns twinkled once more, and the 
waiters with tapers touched the candles into 

There stood Lady Hackett, speechless, 
suddenly the centre of a group ; one hand 
clutching at her neck in a gesture of despair. 

Isabel came slowly to her side. 

"• My pearls are gone ! " said Lady Hackett, 
half sobbing. 

" Gone ? Impossible ! You mean the string 
has broken," said Duncanson. He seized a 
candle and began looking about on the floor. 

' They're gone, I tell you I felt someone 
take them just as something broke." 

Everyone looked towards the floor, where 
lay the decapitated Buddha. Only Isabel 
remained unmoved. She was staring at 
Cyprienne with a strange expression in her 

' Where are my pearls ? " cried Lady 
Hackett again. " I had them a moment 
ago. Oh, how cruel I How wicked ! " 

Duncanson swore below his breath, aghast 
at the turn the festivities had taken. 

" Are you sure you wore them ? " 

" Perfectly sure," answered the frenzied 
woman. " It was during that dance with 
the lights out that someone seemed to come 
from behind, just as we reached the studio 
again. It was someone with gloves." 

None of the men and few of the women 
were wearing gloves ; and as one looked at 
the other, Isabel stared again at the soft 
black suede with which Cyprienne's arms 
and hands were dressed. 

" The waiters," suggested somebody in a 
low voice. 

" They were at the other end of the room," 
Duncanson said. He brought a chair for 
Lady Hackett, who was trembling violently ; 
and Mrs. Creath came to her side, and mur- 
mured to her in a low voice:. 


Richard Fletcher 


■• Mr, Duncanson," said Lady Hackett, 
•• my pearls have been stolen." 

As if in a flash Duncanson knew that this 
idea had been suggested to her by Mrs. 

" It is impossible," he said, angrily. 

" But it is so. They are not on my neck, 
they are not on the floor. I believe everyone 
ought to be searched." 

" No, no," said Mrs. Creath. " Leave it 
to Mr. Duncanson, dear." 

" No one shall be searched in my house," 
said Duncanson. " I would not submit my 
friends to such an indignity even if they 
were willing. I would rather make up the 
loss to you in some other way." 

The tension was terrible, when Mrs. Creath 
spoke again, and it struck Robert that she 
was relieved. 

" Come, my dear, we had better go home. 
I can't see the use of staying." 

-i It's all so dreadful I " said Lady Hackett. 

The sobered revellers ware still -looking 
about, gliding up the stairs hopelessly, and 
rearranging the furniture. It was as if an 
evil genius had cast a spell on a fairyland of 
mirth. / 

Duncanson saw Lady Hackett to the door, 
and when he came back he passed Cyprienne 
on the stairs. 

" What a misfortune ! " she said. " I am 
so sorry." 

" It isn't the value of the infernal things, 
Cyprienne. It's the devil amongst us who 
has put us all in such a position." 

" Robert," she whispered, " your wife 
suspects me." 

" You ? Good God ! " 

She gave a pale smile and held out her 
black-gloved harids. 

" I wore gloves, you see. That was the 
only clue. But all along I have felt it since 
I came into this room." 

" Felt what, my child ? " he said, gently. 

" Felt that she doubts me and dislikes me. 
It is very hard, Robert, for she has every- 
thing and I have nothing ; but I am not a 
thief. You will take care of my character, 
Robert ? I have nothing but my honesty." 

He took her hand in both his and bent 
over her. 

" Such an idea is impossible. I would as 
soon doubt Isabel. Is that enough ? " 

She looked at him, and her eyes were 
luminous, like dark pools of water on which 
the moonlight shone. 

" It is more than enough," she said. " It 
makes up for everything that you should say 
that." She glided away among the shadows, 
and Duncanson returned to the empty studio. 

It was a disastrous end to the carnival, 
and he took Isabel into his arms to express 
their mutual trouble, but she stiffened and 
struggled free. ized by QoOgl' 

" What do I think ? I think your French 
friend has Lady Hackett's pearls, that's 
what I think ! " 

Duncanson fell back a step. 

" She is the last person in the world capable 
of doing such a thing." 

14 You are very certain," returned Isabel, 
in a challenging manner. 

" I am." 

" Why ? " 

" Because I know Cyprienne." 

41 You mean you love her." 

" Hush, Isabel ! " The man put out his 
hand as if to stem the rising tide of his wife's 
accusing anger. 

" I saw for myself your interest in her. 
I couldn't hear what you said, but it was all 
so plain. And you brought her here to 
disgrace me ! " 

" You are disgracing yourself now," said 
Duncanson. " Take care, Isabel. I tell you 
this girl is nothing to me but a friend, and 
I require you to believe me. Do you ? " 

" No." 

" Very well," he said, slowly, *' that ends 
it — the dream, I mean. If you don't trust 
me you don't love me, and that breaks the 
big link between us." 

" Lady Hackett thinks as I do," said 
Isabel, terrified at his tone, yet too proud 
to relent. " She wants Cyprienne's address." 

" Does she, indeed ! Then she won't get 
it." • 

" She can easily obtain it from Lily Creath, 
who knows where the girl works." 

This was true, and Duncanson stood 

" Do you mean to say," he said, slowly, 
" that you will aid and abet these women in 
trying to take the bread out of her mouth ? " 

14 Well, I don't see why Lady Hackett 
shouldn't get her pearls back." • 

He turned away with an eloquent gesture, 
and Isabel crept upstairs in the moonlight 
to bed. 

EARLY next morning, and without seeing 
his wife, Robert Duncanson went to see 
Cyprienne. The day was wet and cold 
when he went into the French atmosphere 
of the Bloomsbury house and waited in the 
chilly drawing-room, very ill-furnished, until 
Cyprienne came in. 

She tried to define a reason for this un- 
expected visit, and both stood up for an 
unreasonably long time, while he admired 
her terra-cotta jumper and spoke of the 
dismal weather. But this nonsense she 
stopped of her own accord. 

" Tell me, man cher, why have you come ? 
I am due at business in a few minutes, but 
I will wait all day if there is anything I can 
do to help you." 

He took her two llitrle hands in his. 



The Heart of Columbine 

" Cyprienne, you were right last night. 
They do suspect; you, those two confounded 

Her face changed and whitened ; she tore 
her hands from his grasp. 

" Suspect me of stealing the pearls ? " she 
breathed, clenching her hands. 

" Yes, my child." 

" And vour wife ? " 

•* She, too." 

"Then you may tell her, monsieur, that 
I am an honest girl ; as honest as she or 
any of her fine friends." 

" I have told her that, Cyprienne." His 
steady look half disarmed her, but the horror 
of the accusation was with her still. She 
walked about the little room, wringing her 

" I am a vendeuse of frocks," she said ; 
" no thief. It is because I am a vendeuse 
that you are here, I suppose ? You have 
not questioned Mme. Creath, or those 
other women? And yet, when she, Mme. 
Creath, looked at that sable coat the other 
day at the shop where I sell, looked at it 
and could not afford to buy it, there was a 
little devil of longing in her eyes. She 
would have sold her soul, if it had been for 
sale, that one, to get it. And I, all my life 
I have done without these things — to think 
that you should suspect me!" 

Robert went up and took her wrists. 

" Be quiet ! " he said, harshly. " Look 
at me." 

She looked at him, amazed by his tone, 
subdued by something in his face. 

" Never for one moment have I suspected 
you. Remember what I said last night. 
I would as soon suspect my wife." 

She trembled into tears, but he went on. 

" If it is any satisfaction to you to know 
it, if my wife persists in her accusations, we 
shall part, she and I, although I love her 
better than myjife. Now you understand 
why I have come, don't you ? You had 
better go back to Paris until this thing has 
cleared up. Whatever you need.T will lend 
you." And he took out a roll of bank-notes 
and pressed them into her hand. But 
Cyprienne pushed them back again. 

" No, no," she said, " I don't want your 
money, and I will not run away. All I 
wanted you have given me, Robert, in your 
trust and faith. It heals the wound that 
you made Jong ago that has hurt so much 
ever since." 

He took her two little hands in his again 
and kissed first one and then the other. 
Then he dropped them both and went out 
into the street, where he bought a newspaper. 

A curious time followed : grey, hateful 
days — Duncanson could never bear to look 
back on them — when he and Isabel seemed 
to inhabit different worlds. All in a moment 

Digiiiz&d by ^OOQ IC 

the dream life of love seemed to have gone* 
although the love itself still throbbed in both 
their hearts. Yet he could not forgive her 
for her doubt of him. It was no use, he 
could not. 

SIR BRIAN and Lady Hackett had agreed 
to keep the theft secret for the present, 
for Duncanson had seen them and had 
sworn to get to the bottom of the matter, 
sworn it with such confidence that he had 
inspired them with the same belief, although 
he h&d not the smallest idea how to set 
about it ; and then the miracle happened. 

A few days later he met Mrs. Creath in 
Bond Street swathed in a rich coat of sables 
which struck his artist's eye with their 
peculiar beauty and value. It was a coat 
fit for an empress, and Duncanson turned 
and stared after this lady so magnificently 
protected from the cold of the late winter, 
and, as he stared, the words she had spoken 
to Cyprienne at the ill-fated carnival came 
into his mind. 

" J could no more afford such a coat than 


Yet only a few weeks after she was able 
to afford it ! 

Duncanson was nimble-witted, and forth- 
with he threw himself into a fascinating, 
occupation. First he sought the advice of 
a private detective, and most mysteriously 
they set forth on a tour of the fur merchants 
in May fair. The artist and private inquiry 
agent then invaded the crowded. lanes where 
pearls are bought and sold at monstrous 
prices, and they were told of a mysterious 
sale of five splendid* stones by a solicitor on 
behalf of an embarrassed client. After a 
few days of much rushing hither and thither 
Robert Duncanson sought Mrs. Creath at her 
house near Marble Arch, and caught her, just 
as she was going out. She was wearing the 
fur coat, which she held at the collar, as if 
an unconscious gesture of self-defence, as she 
murmured a little greeting of surprise. 

" I hope I am not in the way," began 
Duncanson, " but I have pressing business." 

" Really ? How interesting ; business with 
me!" She sat down, and the cloak slipped 
from her shoulders and fell about her in 
luxurious folds *on the chair. 

" It is about Lady Hackett's pearls," he 
went on. 

" Oh, yes." 

" An accusation has been made against 
one of the guests." Duncanson sat in front 
of her and looked down searchingly at the 
handsome, immutable face. She evaded his 

" Well, I do hope Minnie Hackett will 
recover her pearls," she said ; "she lunched 
with me yesterday and she was still fright- 
fully upset/ft r j g j 

1 1 1 1 •/■ i 1 1 '.* 1 1 1 


Richard Fletcher 


** Duncanson pulled aside the curtain. ' You 

see that mart?' He indicated a tall figure* 

*He represents the police ! * " 

" Can you imagine who is accused ? " 
asked Duncanson, 

" I am afraid not, I knew so few people 
at your house, even by name," Mrs, Creath 
explained, sweetly, 

L An innocent person, a woman who works 
for her living/ is the one suspected/' 

" But what is this to do with me ? n Mrs. 
Creath asked, relaxing easily in her chair, 

" That is something for you to answer," 
replied Duncanson, quietly* 

11 1 do not understand." 

" Very well. Perhaps I have not been too 

Duncanson sat on the edge of the Chester- 
field, so that the dark eyes of his companion 
could not shift so quickly from his gaze. 

" I know who is the real thief/' he stated, 

She shrugged her shoulders. " Then why 
don't you spare the innocent woman all this 
humiliation ? " 

" Because she> the real thief, has not con- 

fess i_ig 



The Heart of Columbine 

Duncanson felt a reflection of the nervous- 
ness that was quivering within her ; it was 
like an electric wave agitating the air. 
However, she spoke quietly enough. 

" Why do you come to me, Mr. Duncan- 
son, with all this ? I am a busy woman. 
I am sorry it has happened, but it is no affair 
of mine." 

Duncanson went on immovably. 

" Five pearls were sold by a solicitor to a 
certain pearl-dealer. We knew all that, and 
that one of the clients of the same solicitor 
was in a position a day later to buy a most 
expensive sable coat." 

11 You make it very difficult for me, I 
have been your guest so recently." 

" Then, by all means, do the easiest thing, 
Mrs. Creath. It is no use, you must give 
back the rest of the pearls." 

" So you accuse me ? Me, of stealing Lady 
Hackett's necklace ? " She rushed to the 
bell. " I am afraid I must ask you to go." 

" Wait," cried Duncanson, " before you 
ring, and hear me out. Do you mind coming 
to the window ? " 

Mrs. Creath paused. 

" The window ? " 

Duncanson pulled aside the curtain, and 
she looked out involuntarily. 

" You see that man ? " The painter 
indicated a tall figure in an overcoat and 
bowler hat, silhouetted against the palings 
and trees of the square. " He represents the 
police." Duncanson was impressive. " Don't 
force me to take any further steps, Mrs. 
Creath. I assure you I have plenty of 
evidence to start with, at all events." 

She looked at him white-lipped, furious, 
and yet obviously terrified. 

" So you think the Hacketts would permit 
such an outrage ? 1 shall telephone to them 
at once." 

" I should not do that if I were you," 
said Duncanson, with grave consideration ; 
" they need never know. I can say the neck- 
lace was found in my studio ; but the five 
pearls you sold must be bought back. This 
is to save you from disgrace." 

Mrs. Creath sank on the Chesterfield and 
covered her face with her hands. 

" Oh, Mr. Duncanson, swear, swear to me 
that no one shall ever know ! " 

" Why did you do it ? " he asked. " It 
was sheer madness." 

" Yes, it was. I was mad. Beautiful 
things like that almost drive me crazy with 
longing. It is impossible for a man to 
understand the awful temptation of clothes 
to women like me ; I could not sleep at 
night thinking of it. Then, suddenly, came 
the chance, and it all seemed so simple." 

He looked down at her, pondering on the 
strange depths of human nature hidden 
away in this fair exterior. Then she got up. 

Digitized by GoOQlC 

and, unlocking her writing-case, took from 
the drawer the broken string of pearls and 
handed them to Duncanson. 

'* Is that all ? " she said, brokenly. 

" I must have the other five, and have 
them re-strung." 

" It will take every penny I have in the 

11 And be cheap for you at the price." 

" There is no other way ? How long will 
you give me ? " 

" Forty-eight hours." 

She stood with bent head in the middle 
of the room, and, without another word, he 
turned and left her. 

THREE days later he told Isabel that 
Cyprienne's innocence had been estab- 
lished, and the pearls restored. He 
imparted these facts quietly, and added : — 

" I am waiting for you to apologize to 
the girl whose good name you took away 
without a second thought." 

Isabel fought with her pride a moment, 
then she burst into tears. 

" I do — I do apologize. Won't you for- 
give me and love me again ? " 

Duncanson made no answer. He was sit- 
ting by the fire in the big studio, and she 
crept nearer and knelt at his side. 

" Was it so very dreadful, what I did ? " 
she asked, lifting her lovely face to his. 

'' Yes, it was dreadful. It was a sin against 
our love. Do you know, Isabel, that if 1 
had not been able to clear Cyprienne, I could 
not have gone on living here with you, with 
the thought of all you had tried to do eternally 
between us." 

He saw that she trembled exceedingly 
and let her head sink lower and lower until 
it almost rested on his knees. He longed to 
put his arms around her, but resisted the 
temptation ; something seemed lacking with- 
out which their reconciliation could not be 
perfect. He clutched the arms of his chair 
and stared ahead, struggling with himself 
and his love for her. Suddenly he saw that 
Isabel was pushing a note towards him with 
her face hidden, and he took it from her 
trembling hand and read it. 

It was from Cyprienne. 

My Robert.— I got your letter telling me that the 
pearls were found, and that you were coming to see 
me ; but before you came I had another visitor — your 
wife. She opened her heart to me and asked my 
forgiveness. Robert, she has a child's heart, and it 
is full of love for you. I am only a shadow ; but 
even shadows may come between two people, so I 
am going back to the Paris 1 love. She kissed me 
before she left. Return that kiss to her, my friend, 
from Cvprienne. 

With one swift movement Duncanson 
gathered his wife to his heart and kissed her 
mouth. The shadow was past. 




iii liiiimii iil 

. Is Modern 



One hundred teachers of dancing recently met in London to deliberate on the 
standardization of dance steps. " Bolshevism is creeping into the ball-room/' 
they said, and an effort is to be made to stamp out the freak, indecorous 
dances against which there has been an outcry in the Press and Pulpit, Here 
are a few opinions on the subject sent to us by welUknown artistes and 

exponents of dancing. 




THERE is a certain type of dancer 
who, when a new dance is invented, 
promptly proceeds to kill it by 
introducing all sorts of exaggerated 
steps and contortions, making it an ugly and 
immodest series of leg gymnastics which dis- 
gust all lovers of real dancing. Many people 
have condemned the Fox-Trot, Tango, One- 
Step, Jazz- Twinkle, and other of the latest 
variations in dances because they have only 
seen them as vulgar romps. The Tango, for 
instance, when it was first introduced into 
this country eleven or twelve years ago, 
immediately got a bad reputation because 
of the gyrations of self-styled experts, who 
simply made the dance ungraceful and dis- 
graceful by their freakish antics. 

As a matter of fact, the Tango, when 
properly danced, is, to my mind, one of the 
most delightful of dances. The same remark 
also applies to the Fox-Trot, which, slightly 
varied with the Tango Corte and the Boston, 
is perhaps the most popular of all the modern 

I must confess, however, that I love the 
charm and grace of the waltz, the polka, and 
the most delightful and interesting of all 
square dances, the lancers. Given good 
partners, they are the prettiest of all dances to 
watch and participate in. Which brings me 
to another point. Good partners can make 
the ugliest dance pretty. By good partners 
I mean the man or woman who perfects him- 
self or herself in the main steps of each dance. 
They do not worry about introducing twists 
and twirls of their own, a prevalent habit 

Digitized by CjOOQ I C 





with those who do not realize that the real 
art of dancing lies in the perfect execution of 
the simple steps. 


Ball-room dancing is ugly only when 
dancers make it ugly. I would have two 
rooms at dances In one I would place those 
dancers who wish to exhibit their ignorance 
of dancing — the people who indulge in the 
freak steps and exaggerated movements 
which have brought ball-room dancing into 
disrepute. In the other I would place the 
real dancers — the young people who, in- 
spired by good music and love of the art, 
dance the true movements, and the older 
people who recognize that the enjoyment of 
dancing for themselves and others lies in 
concerted steps and rhythm. 

In this way I would try to prevent a young 
girl's ideas of the true enjoyment of dancing 
being corrupted. That, to my mind, is the 
worst feature of the manner in which ball- 
room dances are so often executed to-day. 

A young girl goes to her first private or 
public dance. Her partner, wisliing to dis- 
play what he considers an up-to-date know- 
ledge of dancing, holds her in a manner to 
which she has not been accustomed, and 
proceeds to indulge in steps which confuse 
her and make her think that there is some- 
thing lacking in her knowledge of dancing, 
the truth being that her knowledge is far 


198 Is Modern Ball- Room Dancing Ugly ? 

An incorrect position in the Fox- 
Trot. The gentleman** hand 
should not be placed upon the 
lady's hip f but between the 
shoulder-blades, The position of 
the lady's hand is also wrong. 

superior. She can dance in a 
manner which charms the eye and 
produces real enjoyment, effects 
which are total) y spoilt by the 
freakish actions of the partner. 
Not that it is always the man 

who is at fault, Many men who love dancing 
for its own sake have been disgusted with the 
ball-room antics of ladies who think it clever to 
display what they consider up-to-date dancing, 
but which is distasteful except to the few. 

Could they see themselves as they prance, hop, 
skip, back step, side step, and indulge in a variety 
of other exaggerated movements which are never 
practised by the good dancer, they would realize 
how ugly they appear* 

1 don't think ive can standardize. That would 
be too automatic. Neither do I think that we 
shall ever go back entirely to the old style of 
dances. As in everything else, w r e must have 
change and progress. New dances add variety to 
the fascination of the ball-room, but dancers and 
teachers who interpret them according to their 
own exaggerated ideas and freakish notions soon 
bring them into disrepute. 


My opinion of the present-day style of dancing 
is that it is inartistic, indelicate, and far too 
theatrical and acrobatic for private purposes, 
Jazzitis is no doubt the outcome of the war. 
It enabled people to give 
vent to their feelings in un- 
gainly cape rings in heated 
atmospheres, to the disgust of 
all true lovers of dancing* 

I am glad to note that 

there is a tendency to return 

to the more sane and graceful 

Style of dance that prevailed 

A»J^ ^^k m at the end of the nineteenth 

V ^ century. 


The Popular Musical Comedy 
Actress and Dancer. 

I do not think one can say 
that the modern dancing is any 
less graceful than the dancing 
of other days, It is solely 
what the dancers themselves 
make of it. The whole thing 
in dancing of any period is 
the manner in which it is 

Kven the extremely graceful 
minuet can be ugly and clumsy 
if the manner of dancing is 
bad. If only people would 
study style instead of steps, 
it would do away with much 
of the controversy on this 

People in general have lost 
the real meaning of dancing. 
As in all dancing, music 
should inspire one to dance, 
and the motion should give 
Jriatesriifreiaiid joy.. 

Correct position in which 

the lady's hand should be 

held in the Fox-Trot. 


Is Modern Ball- Room Dancing Ugly ? 199 


The Well-known Comediia 
I feel positive that the 
reason of the present-day 
dancing craze is because 
the dances of to-day re- 
quire no tuition. There is 
no grace or charm about 
them, and the One-Step, 
Two-Step, Bunny- Hug, and 
Jazz are of one and the 
same thing. You glue your- 
self to your partner, walk 
about with an occasional 
turn or a dip or two, and 
now and again you reverse 
just to show how really 
clever you are. 

As a matter of fact, it is 
not dancing at all* Could 
our great - grandmothers 
have peeped into the 
various London social and 

society cluj>s while the al- 
leged dances were going on, 
they would have thought 
it was a wrestling match 
to music. 

To my mind there is no 
dance — no modern ball- 
rporn dance— which com- 
pares with the best of all 
dances — the minuet — -the 
acme of grace, charm, and 

It is a pity it has given 
place to dances which, 
more often than not, 
offend the eye as 
well as the taste of 
all lovers of good 
dancing, I am sure 
s that out of every 
hundred of the One- 
Step brigade, no more 
than three can 
waltz or walk 
either. If 

Another view of the same pose, 
shown opposite, demonstrating 
the correct position (or the gen- 
tlemen's tight hand — Le, r between 
the lady's shoulder a. 

they could waltz, they would 
not desire to parti cipa to in 
the freak Steps and con- 
tortions which go by the 
name of dances nowadays. 


Engaged with Mme. 
Anna Pavlova. 

It is a great pity so many 
ugly and exaggerated steps 
are used nowadays in ball* 
room dancing. They are not 
graceful, and are absolutely 
lacking in rhythm. The 
trouble is that so many 
dancers introduce steps of 
their own, that the grace, 
charm, and enjoyment of 
baTl-room dancing is de- 
stroyed. Those who dance 
for dancing's sake, and for the love of the art, ate never 
guilty of such offences, and make every dance, whether 
it is the One-Step, Tango, Fox-Trot, Veleta, or Maxina, 
the poetry of motion. 

We have heard much about the exaggerated dances 
introduced from America, but, in my opinion, Americans 
dance very nicely* Their movements axe simpler and 
have more restraint. (I do not mean, of course, the 
exponents of the extraordinary so-called American 
dances, which, after all. are only freaic movements.) 

The Milt" — an ugly move- 
ment which is to be dis- 


Is Modern Ball- Room Dancing Ugly ? 

A common fault in the Waltz — 
the hands should not be raised 

above the level of the shoulders- 
One of the most charming dances I have 
seen is the Argentine Tango, as danced in 
Argentina, It is a simple variation of the 
ordinary Tango, and 1 hope one day it will 
become popular in England. 

Rut this dance, like others, will become 
ugly unless properly executed by those who 
really love dancing, 


The Author of "Dancing as it Should Be" and 
"Dancing in All Ages.' 

It may, I think, be freely admitted that 
much of the dancing now practised is lacking 
in that ease, elegance, and propriety of action 
which we are accustomed to associate with 
the idea of gracefulness. There is, however, 
one consolatory reflection, Although some 
aspects of social dancing are still to be 
deprecated from an aesthetic standpoint, 
morally the style now in vogue is less objee* 
t tollable than was that which obtained in the 
years immediately preceding the war. For 
one thing, the suggestive mouvtment des 
hanches, or hip-swaying action, is now rarely 
if ever to be seen at any decent dance ; 

Digitized by C^t 

certainly it would not be tolerated hi any 
pronounced degree. 

There is now, happily, a decided reaction 
in favour of waltzing. The dances of the 
past few seasons have for the most part 
been mere names* to which the partners 
execute whatever steps they happen to know\ 
As the ordinary hall-room performer has 
but a limited stock from which to draw, it 
follows that there is very little variety in 
his dancing, and the same steps do duty for 
all dances, no matter by what names they 
may be called. 

Our young composers have become so 
strangely obsessed by the spirit of ragtime 
that they seem to have lost all perception of 
what is truly rhythmic in dance music. 
The absolute elimination of the ragtime 
element would go far towards bringing 
about a letter style of ball-room dancing. 
There is no special clearly-defined rhythm 
to what is called the " Fox-Trot/* but 
about the rhythm of the waltz 
there can be no possible mis- 
take. The music, though 
in triple time, like the 
mazurka and minuet, has. 
a special, distinctive lilt 
by which it is easily 
distinguished from other 
three-time measures. 

My personal conviction 
is that dancers are weary 
of irregular movement to 
rhythmless music, and I 
would suggest that hos- 
tesses and arrangers of 
public daifces should try 
the experiment of getting 
the band to play a few 
simple dance melodies of definite and dis- 
tinctive rhythm, such as the waltz, polka, 
sehottische, and mazurka. The music of 
these dances if well marked, almost tells a 
dancer with any knowledge of the art what 
steps to employ, and he would be free to 
introduce reasonable variations if he felt 
so disposed. Besides, there would always 
be the beautiful triple waltz-step for dancers 
who did not know what others to use* 


Britain's Premier Bait 'Room Dancer. 
In my opinion, modern ball-room dancing 
is very far from ugly ; but modern dancers 
try very hard to make it so by the intro- 
duction of steps which are out of place in 
the ball-room, A few slides or exaggera- 
tions, if done properly, help one to enjoy 
the dance much more than a set number 
of steps* Of course, the old school at once 
cry M Freak steps. AYe must stop them — 
they will lower the tone and dignity of 

J OriginaTTrom * J 


Is Modern Ball- Room Dancing Ugly ? 

20 1 

dancing*" But who in our democratic day 
wants to appear dignified ? 

It is the joy of the dance that matters to 
most of the dancers. Cut out high-heel 
kicking by all means. The hall -room is not 
the place for steps of that description. But 
good, kind dancing teachers, please do not 
try to make us standardized, Let us have 
a little novelty and originality in our dances* 
We were given standard suits ; nobody 
wears them. Somebody told tis to eat 
standard bread ; nobody eats it* If you 
standardize dances, nobody will want to 
dance them, except the prim and proper 
persons who think you ought to dance 
without a smile, 


The English Premiere Danseuse. 

In my opinion, modern ball -room dances, 
when danced well, are not ugly, and they are 
certainly amusing and delightful to dance, 
There are, however, always certain people 
who spoil them by exaggerating their steps 
and style to make themselves conspicuous 
in the ball-room* This, in my opinion, is 
unforgivable, but I have no doubt that they 

The correct position 
for the waltz. 

vol ix.—n 

3 y Google 

would do the same with any dances, and that 
a decade ago there were spoilers too. It is 
not the dances themselves that are uglv, 
but the people who, with eccentric and 
freakish steps, make them appear so, 

Of the Afhambra Theatre. 

I love dancing — real dancing — whether 
of to-day or a decade ago, but freak-dancing 
— the very name suggests a counterfeit of 
the genuine thing. 

The real lover of dancing, with dancing 
in her soul as well as in her feet, objects to 
travesties of an art symbolic in itself (or it 
should be) of the joy of living. 

All exaggeration is inartistic, as the 
imagination ceases at once to be focused 
on the thing itself, but rather on its per- 
version. As long as dancing is real dancing, 
a spirit truthfully interpreted, it is unin- 
fluenced by the vagaries of fashion — a 
thing joyous and unchanging as the Spirit 
of Youth* 


The Famous Society Ball-Room Dancer. 

Dancing is the most beautiful art in the 
world. Unfortunately it has been spoiled, 
and is still being spoiled, by people who 
insist on introducing freak and exaggerated 
steps into it, There is a certain type of 
dancer who thinks he is doing something 
wonderful by showing freak steps. 

There is too much exaggeration in the 
dancing. Both men and women seem to 
delight in putting in all kinds of fancy steps 
and hesitations, upsetting the harmony and 
rhythm of the ball-room, much to the dis- 
comfort of their fellow-dancers. 

Thank goodness these antics do not appeal 
to the best dancers. The plain, simple 
ball room dancing is the real foundation 
of all dancing, and I would like to see more 
of the waltz and the old-time dances. 
Freak steps are not only ugly, but they 
are a nuisance, particularly in a crowded 

Dance properly, no matter what the dance 
may be, and the world will dance with you. 
Dance improperly, and you disgust all 
lovers of the art. 

People who wish to dance well — and by 
that 1 mean become artists of time, rhythm, 
and grace — must pay the greatest attention 
to the way they hold themselves, to their 
facial expression, and, above all, to the way 
they use their feet. 

I find that most English people have a 
good idea of rhythm, which is the greatest 
factor in dancing, but their better judgment 
has been warped by the horrible exaggera* ' 
tion I have referred to* To my mind. 



Is Modern. Ball- Room Dancing Ugly? 

Vernon Castle was one of the cleverest 
ball-room dancers in the world, and he was 
an Englishman. • 

I have seen very few men hold their 
partners in the correct way. A man obviously 
cannot possibly have full control over his 
partner if he extends his left hand with hers 
and places the other on the hip, as I have so 
often seen done. The correct place for the 
man's right hand is between his partner's 

At the same time, I do not think we shall 
ever go back to the old set dances. The 
tendency is to advance — to dance at one's 
individual inclination instead of automati- 

But we should not have this talk about 
Bolshevism in the ball-room if dancers 
would cultivate the real art of dancing 
instead of the ugly, exaggerated steps about 
which there is such an outcry. 


President of the Imperial Society of Dancing Teachers. 

While teachers of dancing are determined 
to banish from the ball-room those exagger- 
ated steps which are the reverse of beautiful 
and bring dancing into disrepute, there is 
no desire or intention to standardize the 
dance as a whole. We do not believe in 
sequence dances. During the past season 
one saw nothing except One-Steps, Fox-Trots, 
and valses in our smart circles — and each 
usually consisted of the same three simple 
movements, the difference in tempo alone 
making a slight change. Let us be candid 
with one another. Take the One-Step and 
the Fox-Trot. Closely examine the popular 
steps, and it must be agreed there is little 
or nothing in them. Then it may be asked, 
" Why are they so popular ? " and the 
answer is simple — " The music." Every tune 
is a tune, and usually very catchy at that. 
Both dances are practically a mixture of the 
old One-Step, Two-Step, and schottische. 

Many have condemned the so-called Jazz 
dances. There is no such thing as a Jazz 
step in any of them. The band does the 
Jazzing — and this could easily be dispensed 
with to the advantage of the dance and the 
dancer. Modern dances are easy to acquire 
and pleasing to perform. They do not 
exhaust one. They are even graceful, but, 
of course, can be abused, when they become 

distinctly ugly — but this is very seldom 
done in decent circles. 

In the best circles, no matter whether it 
be in Britain, in France, or America, present- 
day dancing is extremely good, and one 
might say the dances do not vary in the least. 
During a recent visit to Paris I went to 
several of the smartest hotels and famous 
dance salons, where one meets the best of 
English, American, and Continental people, 
all thoroughly enjoying the dance, and it 
struck one at once that so similar were the 
steps and movements of the dancers that it 
could have been imagined that they had all 
been taught at the same school. Every 
second dance was a Tango — but what a 
different Tango to what one knew in 1913 ! 
To-day it is simple, progressive, and devoid 
of all lifting, bending, and dipping — just a 
graceful, pleasing dance with music most 
entrancing. This Tango added to the even- 
ing's enjoyment. On some programmes was 
the " Espagnole Schotis," or Spanish Schot- 
tische — again a simple, quiet measure of the 
Fox-Trot family, but slower. At one place 
only did the " Shimmy " appear. I was 
astounded. It was disgusting. 

One thing is absolutely certain, and that 
is, something new must be introduced, other- 
wise there will soon be monotony in our ball- 
rooms. To revert to dances of a decade ago 
is impossible. What was there in the old- 
fashioned waltz to attract the present-day 
dancer ? Nothing. It was monotonous and 
tiring. The lancers became a romp, the 
barn dance and schottische are replaced by 
more up-to-date sisters in the One -Step and 
Fox-Trot. Dancing is always beautiful, but 
that which is not dancing, but passed off as 
such, is ugly in the extreme, and often 
objectionable in its character. 

Dancing is an art, and must be treated in a 
scientific manner. There is nothing wrong 
with the dances oi to-day. They compare 
more than favourably with those of the past 
two decades. To sum up : Dances of to-day 
are certainly not ugly if danced as taught by 
teachers of repute and good training. The 
rolling or swaying of the shoulders or upper 
part of the body is altogether wrong, and is 
never done by good dancers. A knowledge 
of steps alone is useless without a good style. 
Dancers should make a point of studying 
those who possess this qualification and 
endeavour to copy it. 

by Google 

Original from 



r/ M,~' 


Illustrated ty W. Hatkerell, R.I. 

BONA DEARDEN, holding Mrs. 
Esterel's little hand within her arm, 
paced slowly up and down the room. 
It was a spacious room, mingling 
simplicity and luxury ; and it gave on a 
spacious world of lake, beach, and infinite 
sky. Bona Dearden was a tall woman, no 
longer young ; the years had been kind, 
Mrs. Esterel thought, to her rich, rugged 
comeliness. She had never been beautiful, 
though she possessed much of the raw 
material out of which beauty is made, just 
as she possessed much of the raw material 
out of which happiness is made. Mrs. 
Esterel, whose seventy years had only added 
tenderness to insight, wondered if she had 
failed of happiness as well. 

" It's strange, Bona," said little Mrs. 
Esterel, " to be with you again after fifteen 
years I I went with you to the Home, you 
remember, the very day you brought Chris 
away. And now here I am, and you are 
expecting him back from the yachting trip 
with the Seldens. My dear, what will he 
look like ? " 

Bona Dearden smiled down at her tiny 
godmother, and led her to a table where 
stood a silver-framed photograph. " This," 
she said, ' is very good of Chris." 

Mrs. Esterel adjusted her eye-glasses. 
' You had great good fortune," she said 
after a moment, a little tremulously, " great 
good fortune, my dear." 

" I had great good fortune," repeated Bona 
Dearden, gravely. 

The young face looking out of the frame 
was grave ; it was a quiet face, showing 
resistant strength ; an obstinate chin cor- 
rected an over-sweet mouth; the eyes were 
good, and distinction was added by dark 
irregular brows, swept on as by a last touch. 
Under it was written " Dear Bona, from 
C. D." And that same face, in all stages of 

by Google 

youthfulness, met the gaze from every wall 
of the room. Here was C. D. in fancy dress, 
C. D. in flannels, C. D. in a hockey team, 
C. D. in splendid isolation and his first long 
trousers : and always beneath the faithful 
inscriptions — " To dear Bona," '* With love 
to Bona," " Bona, from hers ever, C. D." 
Mrs. Esterel laughed softly. 

" You told me in your letters that he 
always called you Bona," she said; "but, 
my dear, it seems a little Why ? " 

" He asked if he might. Because he said 
it meant ' good,' and I had been good to him." 

Some curious restraint in Bona's voice 
made the old woman glance at her quickly, 
and say, " I understand. A dear boy, Bona, 
and so grateful." 

" Yes, always grateful — the last thing, 
Godmother, that I wanted him to be ! " 

After a silence Mrs. Esterel said, gently, 
" What did you want, Bona ? " 

" I — wanted to make him entirely mine. 
I wanted him to — take it all for granted, I 
suppose, as he would have if he'd been 
my own son ! His gratitude sets me far off, 
somehow. I can't explain. But you can 
see it in his face in that picture." 
What, my dear ? " 

V The consciousness of a debt." She 
turned abruptly from the table. " He'd 
do anything for me," she said, unevenly, 
" out of gratitude. He doesn't tlunk of 
anything, I believe, but paying me back — ^ 
by success, by work, by the most — delightful 
affection." Her voice broke, to her own 
dismay. " If I were his mother " 

" If you were his mother," said Mrs. 
Esterel, " he would know, by this time, that 
he couldn't pay you back." 

Across the space of fifteen years the two 
women looked at each other. 

At last Bona raised her hands and dropped 
them in a sudden gesture of defeat. She 



A Life That Came To Flower 

c*at down on a couch. " What do you 
mean ? " she said. 

Mrs. Esterel sat beside her, took Bona's 
strong, beautiful hands in her own little, 
withered ones. " What did you say," she 
went on, " when you first mentioned this 
plan to me, years ago ? You came to me. 
Bona, holding out these hands of yours. 
And you said, ' Godmother, I've just realized 
they're empty. Empty ! I am going to fill 
them for myself, as God hasn't seen fit to do 
so.' Do you remember ? " 


" You said, ' I am going to take a little 
boy from the Home. I am going to make 
him mine. It will be absolutely as if he were 
my own, in all ways.' Do you remember ? " 

" Yes." 

" And I said then, ' Bona, you cannot do 
that. You have no right to expect so 

" Why ? " asked Bona Dearden now, 
passionately, defiantly, as she had asked it 
then. " Why ? It seems so — unjust ! I've 
done everything, everything, that his own 
mother could have done. I've loved him, 
thought for him, sorrowed over him, worked 
and lived for him " 

" You've lived for him, dear child. You 
have not given him life." 

Answered by nothing but silence, she went 
on again, * You told me then. Bona dear, 
* I mil replace the bond of the flesh by a 
stronger one of the spirit '—Bona, have you 
done that? Have you succeeded?" She 
took the silence for a reply ; it seemed to 
tell her what she wanted to know. She 
lifted one of Bona's hands and touched it to 
her sweet old lips. " You see, my dear," 
she said, softly, " he's cost you nothing but 
these things — thought, care, money. You 
haven't paid yourself. You haven't the 
claim— ; — " 

She said again, tremulously, " You see, 
my dear, we have to be jealous of our 
privileges — we other ones ! " And at last 
Bona Dearden faced Mrs. Esterel steadily. 

"You are right," she said, "and I was 
wrong. I've failed. Oh, not entirely, of 
course ; and only you and I know that I 
have failed at all. Chris gives me a special 
affection, a special consideration — I told 
myself that it would be like — having borne 
a son, losing him, somehow forgetting him, 
and then — having him returned — that it 
would be like that with Chris and me. He 
would be mine. I should only have to re- 
create my claim in him — I used all my in- 
telligence, Godmother, but — the claim wasn't 

" It was like calling continually to someone 
who was deaf — I can't explain. He did not 
even see my — hands held out, empty. He 
was so sweet, too ; always so sweet to me. 

Digitized by tjOOgJC 

But the innermost Chris I couldn't touch, 
I couldn't lay hold of, I've scarcely even seen. 
I am — outside— and he doesn't dream of it. 

" I have been so careful — so careful to 
force no confidence, "to ask for nothing as my 
right. He gives me more than I ever 
asked. And every year, for all his gratitude 
and sense of obligation " — she laughed im- 
patiently — " we're farther apart, know less 
of each other, feel less of each other. If it 
goes on — if I can't find the way of bridging 
and overcoming this strange deficiency in 
our relation, there will come the day — soon, 
Godmother, soon ! — when I'll lose Chris 
altogether. For gratitude's not enough to 
hold by. You want the inner link, the 
inseparable tie — the claim ! And I haven't 
it — gratitude ! " She turned a flushed, fierce 
face on the older woman. " If he'd just — 
once — fling his arms round me and* call me 
' Mother ' ! He's never thought of it ! " 

She rose and went to the wide window. 
" I haven't the right, you see," she said 
over her shoulder, " but each time he's come 
home through all these years, I've— hoped he 
was going to do it. But I haven't the claim. 
I've done everything but suffer for him." 
Her voice changed. She said, eagerly, " God- 
mother, he's coming home now ! " Mrs. 
Esterel joined her at the window. Bona 
pointed out across the lake, to where, at 
meeting-place of sky and water, something 
twinkled intolerably pure as a star. '* That's 
the Seldens' yacht homeward-bound," she 
said ; "- that's the Gloriana ! " 

THE two women stepped out on the 
broad veranda together. 
Little was visible from the old Dearden 
house but lake and sky. The shore was a 
ribbon of silver-smooth sand, backed by a 
pine-grown height, and looping away mile 
after mile into the mild September haze. 
The Seldens' summer home was hidden five 
miles away round the point ; and the level 
beaches between were never lonely for Bona, 
so peopled were they by memories of Chris ; 
those tideless gleaming shores were invisibly 
written with a hundred little histories. 
Happy histories ; but remembrance dis- 
covered in them melancholy as well ; his 
little departures, his sunny returns, were 
weighed against her need, and found wanting. 
And now once more he was coming home 
to her. The yacht's starry topsails climbed 
above the far blue verge. F^esently they 
saw her spreading an argent breast to the 
evening sun. The sun dipped, the light 
grew golden, she became a vast bird with 
silver pinions and feathers of gold. The 
light failed, fell ; under the first large stars 
the two women still stood on the high 
veranda, watching the glimmering canvas 
towering towards the shore. 


M. L. C. Pickthall 



iii«^^^ imiiin «" liiiiniwiiniiii 

"The two women stepped out on the broad veranda together/' 




A Life That Came To Flower 

At last Mrs. Esterel spoke. " Where will 
they put in ? " 

44 At the Seldens' wharf. Chris told me 
he would have to wait there for supper. He'll 
borrow a horse from Garry and ride over." 

" I don't remember the Seldens, Bona. 
Who arc they ? " 

" Nice people. Wealthy, but pleasant in 
all their ways and works. I have been very 
glad to have them near as friends for Chris. 
They bought the land round the point and 
built a big house there the year after I took 
Chris. Garry Selden was his first chum, and 
is still his best one." 

Mrs. Esterel slowly shook her head. " I 
remember you often spoke of them in your 
letters. I can't, somehow, recall them " 

" A little girl of eight," said Bona at once, 
"ina peacock-blue linen dress, with a white 
rabbit in a birdcage which she had brought 
over to show Chris " 

Mrs. Esterel exclaimed, " I remember ! " 
She said, softly, " Little Lucy Selden ! The 
loveliest child I ever saw in my life ! I 
remember them all now, through remember- 
ing her." 

" No one who has ever seen Lucy Selden 
has ever forgotten her." 

" So beautiful, and Lucy Selden still ? " 

" Married to a cousin. It is said, very 
unhappily. She went part of this cruise with 
them, but they were to land her at Seagrove 
to rejoin her husband." Bona Dearden 
spoke absently. Her eyes were fixed on the 
horizon where the yacht had soared into 
vision, beautiful itself , and freighted with the 
beautiful stuff of youth. In silence the two 
women, the old and the no longer young, 
went into the house together. 

THE evening passed very slowly for Bona. 
Mrs. Esterel went to bed early. Bona 
sat and waited for Chris. Her imagina- 
tion ran forward to meet his coming ; and, as 
always, from the shining pinnacle of her pic- 
tured desire it fell back unsatisfied. She heard 
the beloved voice calling her, but not by the 
name for which she yearned. He would 
gaily tell her things, but not, she sometimes 
felt, the things that mattered. He would 
defer to her, spare her — even the knowledge 
of his own young troubles. She fancied Ins 
step on the stairs, rough arms round her, 
his voice in her ear, " Mother, oh, Mother ! " 
She knew it would not be so. And for all she 
was waiting for him with a happy heart, her 
dark lashes glimmered with tears. He was 
not her own ; her talk with Mrs. Esterel had 
given substance to the unembodied disap- 
pointment of her later years ; she supposed 
she must take what he could give and be 


She sprang to her feet with an angry move- 
ment of her strong body. Gratitude ! It 

Digitized by CjOOQ IC 

threatened to be a wall between them. 
Again the sense of defeat touched her. But 
she forgot it. She heard, far away in the 
windy night, a little dull sound like a pulse 
beating. " Chris ! " she said, softly, and ran 
to the window like a girl. 

The moon was high, but veiled with a thin 
fleeting scud that seemed itself luminous. 
And the foam along the beaches made a 
luminous line, and the sands shone lustrous 
as if they would reflect the few large stars. 
A wind was blowing off the land, heavy from 
sun-warmed pinewoods and hidden marshes. 
Land and lake seemed to blow with the wind, 
a glimmer, an endless passing, unchanging 
in outline but fluid in substance. Nothing 
showed in this drifting night but the single 
light on the end of Seldens' wharf, five miles 
away, where the Gloriana had been safely 
moored an hour and more ago. Nothing 
could yet be seen on the gleam and shadow 
of the sands. But that thudding of a tiny 
pulse was louder in Bona's ears. She knew 
it for the steady beat of a horse's hoofs. 
Laughing a little, a little flushed, she threw 
a long spangled scarf across her head, and 
ran out of the house. She was going to wait 
for the boy at the gate. 

Her heart, as she leaned over the gate with 
the hushed garden and the dark square of 
the house behind her, was the heart of youth ; 
for want will often keep a woman younger 
than will content. The land-wind loosened 
her hair, her eyes questioned the tender night. 
Out of the night that steady hoof -beat an- 
swered her ; power, swiftness, youth were in 
the sound. " He's coming," she breathed, 
" and old Mulberry was too slow for him. 
He's borrowed Challenger ! " It was lovely 
to her that the boy should be in such haste 
to be home. 

The sound swept nearer along the glim- 
mering sands. Soon she could see horse and 
rider, a dark blot between the foam and the 
moon. The dull thud and thunder of the 
great horse's speed seemed for a moment 
ominous, like the resistless onsweep of a 
storm. Then she laughed at herself. " He's 
coming at the gallop," she said. '* What a 
boy he is ! " 

Yet when he had come ; when she had 
opened the gate, and he had ridden through 
it ; when he held Challenger still, and sat 
himself silent in the saddle, stilly looking 
down at her ; in that appalled moment her 
one clear thought was that her boy was gone. 
It was a man's face the moon showed her ; 
the face of a man she did not know. 

» Chris " 

She thought his lips moved as if he said 
" Bona." She went to him. The horse 
quivered and started at her approach. She 
laid a hand grown cold on Chris's knee, and 
felt him somehow unresponsive as if she had 


M. L. C. Pickthall 


touched the saddle leather. She trembled, 
but was perfectly quiet. She said, *' My dear, 
what's happened ? Tell me." 

He said as quietly, " Nothing has happened 
—-yet. I have come to tell you what is going 
to happen." He paused, and there came to 
her ears the voices of wind and foam, a 
whisper as of pity fallen from the stars. 
" Lucy Selden and I are going away together." 

She stood, in a stunned silence, staring at 
him. She was afraid. She had never known 
iezs of another human being in her strong 
life ; and now she was suddenly afraid of 
Chris — her Chris ! 

He went on, in a hard, matter-of-fact 
voice : " No one else knows. 1 preferred 
that you should hear it from me, and not 
in the way you're sure to hear of it later. 
We have loved each other for a year. Lately, 
things have grown — unbearable — such suffer- 
ing for her, and for me through her. We 
arranged it all on board the yacht. I am 
riding on to Seagrove to-night, and she will 
be ready for me. We shall leave on the 
twelve- forty-nine. The rest you'll learn 
soon enough." 

After a minute she said, brokenly, out of 
the ruin and crash of things, " Chris, you 
cannot do it I " 

M Can't I ? " He still looked at her 
quietly, unmoved ; she could feel no break 
in his sudden armour of resolution. " I 
don't know anything on earth that's strong 
enough to hinder me." 

" Won't pity hinder you ? — pity for the 
Seldens, for her husband, for her, for your- 
self ? — or for me ? " 

He answered, with a kind of wonder, 
" You have no power to stop me." 

" Oh, my dear, have I no claim on you at 
all ? " 

He said at once, quite calmly, " You mean 
I forget all that I owe you ? I never forget. 
I owe you everything, of course, down to the 
clothes on my back and the name you lent 
me. But — what do I owe her — Lucy ? " 

" She's chosen wrongly, but her husband 
is fond of her in his way. She is not disci- 
plined to grief yet, Chris. She's choosing 
wrongly again. Won't it move you to think 
of him, of the Seldens ? They are the old 
sort of people, Chris, good people. This will 
half kill them." 

"If the thought of you does not move me, 
is it likely the thought of them will ? " 

" Think of me, then ! " She stood back a 
little, drew herself to her height, faced him 
bravely. But the minutes, she desperately 
felt, were building between them as stones 
in the opening of a door. Soon it would 
be sealed for ever. " Do you realize what 
this will cost me ? " 

He said, almost gently, " Yes." 

" Doesn't that weigh with you at all ? " 

Digiliz&d by \*jOOQ IC 

Using her name for the first time, he 
answered, still more gently, " Bona, it will 
be the first time I have ever cost you anything 
that matters." She looked at him helplessly ; 
and he went on with a quick heat and energy, 
" No, I know you don't understand. You 
have done everything for me, and I've been 
grateful all my life. Now I've come to a 
place where gratitude doesn't count. You've 
never had to pay, soul and body, hope and 
strength, for the chance of doing something 
for anyone, have you ? No, I know you 
haven't. So do you, if you're honest. I 
know what I'm doing, what I'm paying. It 
just doesn't count. I'm glad to pay — to the 
uttermost. But you won't be able to under- 
stand that." 

" I would pay to the uttermost, Chris, to 
keep you from doing this wrong. If you 
think of none of us — think, again, of your- 
self ! Oh, boy, ray hopes for you — your 
position, your chances, your career I Thrown 
away " 

11 I'll be my own, anyway ! " 

She winced, amazed at the bitter speech. 
How little she had known, how little she had 
guessed ! She held herself in hand as if he 
were drowning before her eyes, and she with 
the one chance to save him ; she could have 
screamed to the house for help. Desperately 
she searched her own passionless experience, 
her smooth level of unfulfilled days, for the 
appeal that might touch him, break him, 
turn him in time. She found nothing. She 
had no hold, no claim, strong enough to hold 
him now. She forgot everyone but him. 
She was alone in the glimmering, secret night, 
pleading with him, passionately, despair- 
ingly » pleading with this man who was a 
stranger to her ; fatally, hopelessly a stranger. 

" Chris, Chris, think again of what you 
lose ! " 

" I've nothing of my own to lose. It's all 
yours. And I'm ready to lose everything 
but her." 

" I'm so lost, so bewildered, Chris. I have 
been thinking of you as a boy, my boy — I 
find it hard to know what to say, or to think 
of anything but you. But remember what 
she loses. Have you thought of that ? " 

" We have both thought." 

Yes, she saw that was true. She saw the 
ruthless working of something implacable 
and reasoned, that yet was beyond any 
appeal of reason. Chris seemed of a sudden 
years older than she. And she stood outside, 
outside ! She said, calmly, " Won't you give 
me a chance — dismount and come into the 
house, at least, and listen to me ? " 

" I can't. I'd lose the train — — And 
you'd have no chance. Don't you realize 
that I'd never have come to tell you this if 
you'd had a chance of stopping me? " 

She stood beside him, dumb, defeated, but 



A Life That Came To Flower 

fighting still. If the years" had brought her 
nothing else, they had brought her wisdom. 
She saw /the fatal mistakenness of what he 
was going to-do, at that moment, even more 
clearly than the wrong of it ; he was not 
strong enough to stand alone, friendless, 
against those who had been his friends, poor 
lad ; to carve out a footing for himself un- 
helped, with the disastrous dead- weight of 
Lucy Selden and her inevitable regrets about 
his neck. The pity of it, oh, the pity I The 
defiance, the struggle, the slow descent, the 
acquiescence at last — she raised her face. 
She said, very gently, " Chris, I'm weeping for 

He looked at her with a faint smile. 
" Will you believe I'm sorry ? Some day, 

probably, I shall be sorrier But it's the 

first time you have — wept for me." 

" It will not be the last ! Oh, my dear, 
think / All I ask you is to wait and think. 
I say nothing of her, poor, unenduring, 
beautiful child ! I only pray you to wait — a 
few hours — a few days -" 

She was weeping wildly. Perhaps his 
hardness was troubled by her tears. His 
voice was less controlled as he said, " Bona, 
it's no good. I'll not wait. Nothing will 
make me wait or stop me." 

" Nothing ? Nothing, Chris ?/ I'll stop 
you ! You shall not go ! " - --" 

She scarcely knew what she said. She 
was clinging to him, blinded with tears. 
She saw anger in his face, and was glad of 
it ; anything but that unshaken resolve ! 
She sobbed again, " You shall not go — to 
this disaster ! You don't know what you're 
doing ! I'll stop you,:Chris, I'll stop you- " 

He had gathered the reins. The nervous" 
horse was plunging and fretting. He leaned 
from the saddle and thrust her away, saying 
scornfully, " How ? " 

44 I don't know, I don't know! But 
you're all I have. Perhaps God will show 
me how." 

He did not answer. He was mastering the 
strong horse., Challenger, weary of waiting 
with that heavy hand on the rein, had 
plunged and wheeled, circling down the 
drive towards the house. It was a few 
moments before Chris had him in hand again ; 
Bona, watching, saw the beast's wild eyes 
glint in the moonlight, saw the strain and 
resistance of the rippling brown sinews, the 
play of the powerful hoofs. A fierce free thing, 
untamed, unpitiful as the heart of his rider. 

" Wait, Chris ! Only wait a little ! " 

The answer came back low and angry as a 
lash, " Nothing in life shall make me wait ! " 
He swung Challenger's rebellious head to the 

" Then perhaps this will " 

The words were clear to her ; whose, she 
did not know. She did not know she had 

by LiOOgle 

moved, she thought it was in spirit only 
that she flashed forward, barring the gateway 
with outspread arms. Then she knew that 
her flesh also had obeyed her will, the will of 
her unfulfilled motherhood, and was glad. 
"I'll pay to the uttermost to save you," she 
said, and smiled upwards. She saw the dark 
bulk of the horse, towering over her, violently 
jerked backwards; she saw Chris's face, 
suddenly old, broken, horrified. ' But 
Challenger was not again to be checked. He 
plunged on. The hoofs were on her, the 
fierce breath, the rise of the shoulder. She 
heard a great cry. Then she was struck ; 
and the world was rolled up as a scroll, and 
the heavens were darkened. 

IN that enduring darkness there dawned at 
last a point of light. It spread, became 
sound and troubled her ; became pain 
and hurt her. With the pain was memory. 
She could not tell one from the other. She 
stirred and opened her eyes. A strange 
voice said, softly, " She is awake," and 
someone moved beside her and gave place 
to another. That other was Chris on his 
knees by the bed ; and Mrs. Esterel was over 
near the -window; The familiar folk, the 
familiar room, were alike strange, as if she 
looked at them anew after a long journey. 

She looked only at Chris. With her soul 
in her eyes, she said, clearly, " My dear, it was 
ruin. I had to stop you. I could not let 
you go." 

He took her hand in his and bent his head 
till his forehead rested on it. She whispered, 
" Has the train gone ? " 

After- a sileike the young man said, slowly, 
his face hidden;/* That train went — four days 

She trembled, bewildered. His clasp on 
her hand grew so close it hurt. But it was 
good to be so hurt. She whispered, " It was 
the only way. Do you forgive me ? " She 
had no answer in words. Again she whis- 
pered, " I — didn't think you'd ever forgive 

Chris looked up. His face was wet with 
tears. He said, roughly, " And you risked 
that as well as your life to stop me from doing 
a wrong ? You — would do — all that for me ? " 

" I would do anything for you, child ! It 
was such a wrong to yourself, too, Chris.- 
I had to save you — somehow. And — and 
I knew you wouldn't go and leave me — 
then " 

" Go ? When the horse struck you I 
think my heart broke." 

She had her hand free and was stroking 
his bowed head. " My poor boy ! " she 
breathed. " It was cruel, but it was the 
only way. And Lucy ? " 

He said with difficulty, " They are going 
to — try again. He — her husband — foundJrar 


M. L. C, Pickthall ^ 

1 She heard a great cry — then she was struck." 

waiting for me that night. He was — very 
kind, she says. I — think she's glad I didn't 
go/* The broken younj voice trailed to 
silence, and she said again, " Poor boy I 1 ' 

After a little she asked, timidly, " Shall I 
soon be better ? " 

n Very, very soon now, dear/' 

She could scarcely hear him* Again she 
whispered, " Is — is there anything ? " 

"They say — you may be — a little 
lame " 

She laughed out, a girl's laugh. " Is that 
all ? " she cried, " Why, what a little price 
to pay after all, Chris ! 

Her denied life came to flower. His rough 
arms went round her, she heard .his voice in 
her ear, "it was for me— for me ! Mother, 
oh, Mother, forgive lirftdtri 





THE Hermitage (unrivalled scenery, 
superb cuisine, Daniel Brewster pro- 
prietor) is a picturesque summer hotel 
in the green heart of the mountains, 
built by Archie Moffam's father-in-law shortly 
after he assumed control of the Cosmopolis, 
Mr. Brewster himself seldom went there, 
preferring to concentrate his attention on his 
New York establishment ; and Archie and 
Lucille, breakfasting in the airy dining-room 
one morning in August, had consequently to be 
content with two out of the three advertised 
attractions of the place. Through the window 
at their side quite a slab of the unri vailed 
scenery was visible ; some of the superb 
cuisine was already on the table ; and the 
fact that the eye searched in vain for Daniel 
Brewster, proprietor, filled Archie, at any 
rate, with no sense of aching loss. He bore 




it with equanimity and even 
with positive enthusiasm. In 
Archie's opinion, practically all 
a place needed to make it an 
earthly paradise was for Mr. 
Daniel Brewster to be about 
forty -seven miles away from it. 
He regarded the eternal lulls 
with the comfortable affection 
of a healthy man who is 
breakfasting weh\ 

" It's going to be another 
perfectly topping day," he ob- 
served, eyeing the shimmering 
landscape, from which the 
morning mists were swiftly 
shredding away like faint puffs 
of smoke, tk Just the day you 
ought to have been here." 

r Yes, it's too bad I've got 
to go. New York will be like 
an oven." 
" Put it off/* 

" 1 can't, I'm afraid, I*ve a 

Archie argued no further. 
He was a married man of old 
enough standing to know the 
importance of fittings. 

Besides/' said Lucille, " I 
want to see father." Archie 
repressed an exclamation of 
astonishment. ' I'll be back 
to-morrow evening. You will 
be perfectly happy." 

* Queen of my soul, you 
know I can't be happy with 

you away. You know " 

' Yes ? " murmured Lucille, 

appreciatively. She never tired 

of bearing Archie say this sort 

of thing. 

Archie's voice had trailed off. He was 

looking across the room, 

" By Jove I " he exclaimed. " What an 
awfully prettv woman ! " 
" Where ? " 

" Over there. Just coming in. I say, 
what wonderful eyes ! I don't think I ever 
saw such eyes. Did you notice her eyes ? 
Sort of flashing ! Awfully pretty woman 1 " 
Warm though the morning was, a suspicion 
of chill descended upon the break fast -table, 
A certain coldness seemed to come into 
Lucille p s face. She could not always share 
Archie's fresh young enthusiasms, 
" Do you think so ? N 
" Wonderful figure, too ! " 
11 Yes ? " 

1 Well, what 1 mean to say, fair to 
medium/' said Archie, recovering a certain 
p, g* wodehouidriginal from 


P, G. Wodehouse 


amount of that intelligence which raises 
man above the level of the beasts of the 
field. " Not the sort of type I admire 
myself , of course," 

" You know her, don't you ? " 

4i Absolutely not and far from it," said 
Archie, hastily. " Never met her in my 

" You've seen her on the stage. Her 
name's Vera Silverton. We saw her in " 

M Of course, yes. So we did, I say, I 
wonder what she's doing here ? She ought 
to be in New York, rehearsing, I remember 
meeting what's- his- name — you know — 
chappie who writes plays and what not — 
George Benharn — I remember meeting George 
Benham, and he told me she was rehearsing 
in a piece of his called — I forget the name, 
but I know it was called something or 
other. Well, why isn't she ? '* 

c " She probably lost her temper and broke 
her contract and came away* She's always 
doing that sort of thing. She's known for 
it. She must be a horrid woman." 

" Yes." 
* H I don't want to talk about her. She 
used to be married to someone, and she 
divorced him. And then she was married 
to someone else, and he divorced her. And 
I'm certain her hair wasn't that colour two 
years ago, and I don't think a woman ought 
to make up like that, and her dress is all 
wrong for the country, and those pearls 
can't be genuine, and I hate the way she 
rolls her eyes about, and pink doesn't suit 
her a bit + I think she's an awful woman, 
and I wish you wouldn't keep on talking 
about her." 

" Right-o ! " said Archie, dutifully, 

They finished breakfast, and Lucille went 
up to pack her bag. Archie strolled out on 
to the terrace outside the hotel, where he 
smoked, communed with Nature, and thought 
of Lucille, He always thought of Lucille 
when he was alone, especially when he 
chanced to find himself in poetic surroundings 
like those provided by the unrivalled scenery 
encircling the Hotel Hermitage. The 
longer he was married to her the 
more did the sacred institution seem 
to him a good egg, Mr. Brewster 
might regard their marriage as one 
of the world's most unfortunate incidents, 
but to Archie it was, and always had been, a 
bit of all right. The more he thought of it 
the more did he marvel that a girl like 
Lucille should have been content to link 
her lot with that of a Class C specimen like 
himself. His meditations were, in fact, pre- 
cisely what a happily-married man's medita- 
tions ought to be. 

He was roused from them by a species of 
exclamation or cry almost at his elbow, and 
turned to find that the spectacular Miss 

Silverton was standing beside Jiim. Her 
dubious hair gleamed in the sunlight, and 
one of the criticised eyes was screwed up. 
The other gazed at Archie with an expression 
of appeal. 

" There's something in my eye/* she said. 


" I wonder if 
you would 
mind? It 
would be so 
kind of you ! " 

Archie would 
have preferred 
to remove him* 
self, but no 
man worthy of 
the name can 
decline to come 
to the rescue of 


" There is a certain superficial intimacy about 

the attitude of a man who is taking a fly out of 

a wcmaiM eye/* 



A Room at the Hermitage 

womanhood in distress. To twist the lady's 
upper lid back and peer into it and jab at it 
with the corner of his handkerchief was the 
only course open to him. • His conduct may be 
classed as not merely blameless but definitely 
praiseworthy. King Arthur's knights used 
to do this sort of thing all the time, and 
look what people think of them. Lucille, 
therefore, coming out of the hotel just as 
the operation was concluded, ought not to 
have felt the annoyance she did. But, of 
course, there is a certain superficial intimacy 
about the attitude of a man who is taking a 
fly out of a woman's eye which may ex- 
cusably jar upon the sensibilities of his wife. 
It is an attitude which suggests a sort of 
rapprochement or camaraderie or, as Archie 
would have put it, what not. 

" Thanks so much ! " said Miss Silverton. 

" Oh, no, rather not," said Archie. 

" Such a nuisance getting things in your 

" Absolutely ! " 

" I'm always doing it ! " 

" Rotten luck ! " 

" But I don't often find anyone as clever 
as you to help me." 

Lucille felt called upon to break in on this 
feast of reason and flow of soul. 

" Archie," she said, " if you go and get 
your clubs now, I shall just have time to 
walk round with you before my train goes." 

" Oh, ah ! " said Archie, perceiving her for 
the first time. " Oh, ah, yes, right-o, yes, 
yes, yes ! " 

On the way to the first tee it seemed to 
Archie that Lucille was distrait and ab- 
stracted in her manner ; and it occurred to 
him, not for the first time in his life, what a 
poor support a clear conscience is in moments 
of crisis. Dash it all, he didn't see what 
else he could have done. Couldn't leave the 
poor female staggering about the place with 
squads of flies wedged in her eyeball. 

" Rotten thing getting a fly in your eye," 
he hazarded at length. ' Dashed awkward, 
I mean." 

" Or convenient." 

" Eh ? " 

" Well, it's a very good way of dispensing 
with an introduction." 

" Oh, I say I You don't mean you 
think " 

" She's a horrid woman ! " 

" Absolutely ! Can't think what people 
see in her." 

• " Well, you seemed to enjoy fussing over 
her ! " 

" No, no ! Nothing of the kind ! She 
inspired me with absolute what-d'you-call-it 
— the sort of thing chappies do get inspired 
with, you know." 

" You were beaming all over your face." 

Digitized by Google 

" I wasn't. I was just screwing up my 
face because the sun was in my eye." 

" All sorts of things seem to be in people's 
eyes this morning ! " 

ARCHIE was saddened. That this sort of 
misunderstanding should have occurred 
on such a topping day and at a moment 
when they were to be torn asunder for about 
thirty-six hours made him feel — well, it gave 
him the pip. He had an idea that there 
were words which would have straightened 
everything out, but he was not an eloquent 
young man and could not find them. He 
felt* aggrieved. Lucille, he considered, ought 
to have known that he was immune as 
regarded females with flashing eyes and 
experimentally-coloured hair. Why, dash 
it, he could have extracted flies from the 
eyes of Cleopatra with one hand and Helen 
of Troy with the other, simultaneously, 
without giving them a second thought. It 
was in depressed mood that he played a 
listless nine holes ; nor had life brightened 
for him when he came back to the hotel two 
hours later, after seeing Lucille off in the 
train to New York. Never till now had 
they had anything remotely resembling a 
quarrel. Life, Archie felt, was a bit of a 
wash-out. He was disturbed and jumpy, 
and the sight of Miss Silverton, talking to 
somebody on a settee in the corner of the 
hotel lobby, sent him shooting off at right 
angles and brought him up with a bump 
against the desk behind which the room- 
clerk sat. 

The room-clerk, always of a chatty dis- 
position, was saying something to him, but 
Archie did not listen. He nodded mechani- 
cally. It was something about his room. 
He caught the word " satisfactory." 

" Oh, rather, quite ! " said Archie. 

A fussy devil, the room-clerk ! He knew 
perfectly well that Archie found his room 
satisfactory. These chappies gassed on like 
this so as to try to make you feel that the 
management took a personal interest in you. 
It was part of their job. Archie beamed 
absently and went in to lunch. Lucille's 
empty seat stared at him mournfully, in- 
creasing his sense of desolation. 

He was half-way through his lunch, when 
the chair opposite ceased to be vacant. 
Archie, transferring his gaze from the 
scenery outside the window, perceived that 
his friend, George Benham, the playwright, 
had materialized from nowhere and was now 
in his midst. 

" Hallo ! " he said. 

George Benham was a grave young man 
whose tortoiseshell-rimmed spectacles gave 
him the look of a mournful owl. He seemed 
to have something on his mind besides the 
artistically straggling mop of black hair 


P. G. Wodehouse 


which swept down over his brow. He sighed 
wearily, and ordered fish-pie. 

" I thought I saw you come through the 
lobby just now/' he said. 

" Oh, was that you on the settee, talking 
to Miss Silverton ? " 

" She was talking to me," said the play- 
wright, moodily. 

" What are you doing here ? " asked 
Archie. He could have wished Mr. Benham 
elsewhere, for he intruded on his gloom, but, 
the chappie being amongst those present, it 
was only civil to talk to him. " I thought 
you were in New York, watching the re- 
hearsals of your jolly old drama." 

" The rehearsals are hung up. And it 
looks as though there wasn't going to be 
any drama. Good Lord ! " cried George 
Benham, with honest warmth, " with oppor- 
tunities opening out before one on every 
side — with life extending prizes to one with 
both hands — when you see coal-heavers 
making fifty dollars a week and the fellows 
who clean out the sewers going happy and 
singing about their work — why does a man 
deliberately choose a job like writing plays ? 
Job was the only man that ever lived who 
was really qualified to write a play, and he 
would have found it pretty tough going if 
his leading woman had been anyone Tike 
Vera Silverton ! " 

Archie — and it was this fact, no doubt, 
which accounted for his possession of such 
a large and varied circle of friends — was 
always able to shelve his own troubles in 
order to listen to other people's hard-luck 

" Tell me all, laddie," he said. " Release 
the film ! Has she walked out on you ? " 

" Left us flat ! How did you hear about 
it ? Oh, she told you, of course ? " 

Archie hastened to try to dispel the idea 
that he was on any such terms of intimacy 
with Miss Silverton. 

" No, no ! My wife said she thought it 
must be something of that nature or order 
when we saw her come in to breakfast. 
I mean to say," said Archie, reasoning 
closely, " woman can't come in to breakfast 
here and be rehearsing in New York at the 
same time. Why did she administer the 
raspberry, old friend ? " 

Mr. Benham helped himself to fish-pie, 
and spoke dully through the steam. 

" Well, what happened was this. Know- 
ing her as intimately as you do " 

" I don't know her ! " 

" Well, anyway, it was like this. As you 
know, she has a dog " 

" I didn't know she had a dog," protested 
Archie. It seemed to him that the world 
was in conspiracy to link him with this 

" Well, she has a dog. A beastly great 

Digitized by Li* 

whacking brute of a bulldog. And she 
brings it to rehearsal." Mr. Benham's eyes 
filled with tears, as in his emotion he swal- 
lowed a mouthful of fish-pie some eighty- 
three degrees Fahrenheit hotter than it 
looked. In the intermission caused by this 
disaster his agile mind skipped a few 
chapters of the story, and, when he was 
able to speak again, he said, " So then there 
was a lot of trouble. Everything broke 
loose ! " 

" Why ? " Archie was puzzled. " Did 
the management object to her bringing the 
dog to rehearsal ? " 

11 A lot of good that would have done ! 
She does what she likes in the theatre." 

" Then why was there trouble ? " 

" You weren't listening," said Mr. Benham, 
reproachfully. " I told you. This dog came 
snuffling up to where I was sitting — it was 
quite dark in the body of the theatre, you 
know — and I got up to say something about 
something that was happening on the stage, 
and somehow I must have given it a push 
with my foot." 

*• I see," said Archie, beginning to get the 
run of the plot. " You kicked her dog." 

"Pushed it. Accidentally. With my foot." 

" I understand. And when you brought 
off this kick " 

" Push," said Mr. Benham, austerely. 

" This kick or push. When you adminis- 
tered this lack or push " 

" It was more a sort of light shove." 

" Well, when you did whatever you did, 
the trouble started ? " 

Mr. Benham gave a slight shiver. 

" She talked for a while, and then walked 
out, taking the dog with her. You see, this 
wasn't the first time it had happened." 

" Good Lord ! Do you spend your whole 
time doing that sort of thing ? " 

" It wasn't me the first time. It was the 
stage-manager. He didn,'t know whose dog 
it was, and it came waddling on to the 
stage, and he gave it a sort of pat, a kind of 
flick " 

44 A slosh ? " 

" Not a slosh," corrected Mr. Benham, 
firmly. " You might call it a tap— with the 
prompt-script. Well, we had a lot of diffi- 
culty smoothing her over that time. Still, 
we managed to do it, but she said that if 
anytliing of the sort occurred again she 
would chuck up her part." 

" She must be fond of the dog," said 
Archie, for the first time feeling a touch of 
goodwill and sympathy towards the lady. 

" She's crazy about it. That's what 
made it so awkward when I happened— 
quite inadvertently — to give it this sort of 
accidental shove. Well, we spent the rest 
of the day trying to get her on the 'phone 
at her apartment, and finally we heard that 

* ,- 1 I r.j II 1 ■.II irOJIII * 



A Room at the Hermitage 

she had come here. So I took the next 
train, and tried to persuade her to come 
back. She wouldn't listen. And that's how 
matters stand." 

" Pretty rotten ! " said Archie, sym- 

* You can bet it's pretty rotten — for me. 
There's nobody else who can play the part. 
Like a chump, I wrote the thing specially 
for her. It means the play won't be pro- 
duced at all, if she doesn't do it. So you're 
my last hope ! " 

Archie, who was lighting a cigarette, 
nearly swallowed it. 


" I thought you might persuade her. 
Point out to her what a lot hangs on her 
coming back. Jolly her along. You know 
the sort of thing ! " 

•' But, my dear old friend, I tell you I 
don't know her t " 

Mr. Benham's eyes opened behind their 
zareba of glass. 

" Well, she knows yon, Wlien you came 
through the lobby just now she said that 
you were the only real human being she had 
ever met." 

" Well, as a matter of fact, I did take a 
fly out of her eye. But " 

" You did ? Well, then, the whole thing's 
simple. All you have to do is to ask her 
how her eye is, and tell her she has the m6st 
beautiful eyes you ever saw, and coo a bit." 

11 But, my dear old son ! " The frightful 
programme which his friend had mapped out 
stunned Archie. " I simply can't ! Any- 
thing to oblige and all that sort of thing, 
but, when it comes to cooing, distinctly 
Napoo ! " 

" Nonsense ! It isn't hard to coo." 

" You don't understand, laddie. You're 
not a married man. I mean to say, whatever 
you say for or against marriage — personally 
I 'm all for it and , consider it a ripe egg — ; 
the fact remains that it practically makes 
a chappie a spent force as a cooer. I don't 
want to dish you in any way, old bean, but 
I must firmly and resolutely decline to coo." 

Mr. Benham rose and looked at his watch. 

" I'll have to be moving," he said. " I've 
got to get back to New York and report. 
I'll tell them that I haven't been able to 
do anything myself, but that I've left the 
matter in good hands. I know you will do 
your best." 

" But, laddie ! " 

" Think," said Mr. Benham, solemnly, 
*' of all that depends on it ! The other 
actors ! The small-part people thrown out 
of a job 1 Myself — but no ! Perhaps you 
had better touch very lightly or not at all 
on my connection with the thing. Well, 
you taiow how to handle it. I feel I can 
leave it to you. Pitch it strong ! Good-bye, 

Digitized by dOO^K 

my dear old man, and a thousand thanks. 
I'll do the same for you another time." He 
moved towards the door, leaving Archie 
transfixed. Half-way there he turned and 
came back. * Oh, by the way," he said, 
* my lunch. . Have it put on your check, 
will vou ? I haven't time to stay and 
settle! Good-bye ! Good-bye ! " 

IT amazed Archie through the whole of a 
long afternoon to reflect how swiftly and 

unexpectedly the blue and brilliant sky of 
life can cloud over and with what abruptness 
a man who fancies that his feet are on solid 
ground can find himself immersed in Fate's 
gumbo. He recalled, with the bitterness 
with which one does recall such things, that 
that morning he had risen from his bed with- 
out a care in the world, his happiness un- 
ruffled even by the thought that Lucille 
would be leaving him for a short space. He 
had sung in his bath. Yes, he had chirruped 
like a bally linnet. And now 

Some men would have dismissed the un- 
fortunate affairs of Mr. George Benham frcm 
their mind as having nothing . to do with 
themselves, but Archie had never been made 
of this stern stuff. The fact that Mr. Benham, 
apart from being an agreeable companion 
with whom he had lunched occasionally in 
New York, had no claims upon him affected 
him little. He hated to see his fellow-map 
in trouble. On the other hand, what could 
he do ? To seek Miss Silverton out and 
plead with her — even if he did it without 
cooing — would undoubtedly establish an 
intimacy between them which, instinct told 
him, might tinge her manner after Lucille's 
return with just that suggestion of Auld 
Lang Syne which makes things so awkward. 

His whole being shrank from extending 
to Miss Silverton that inch which the female 
artistic temperament is so apt to turn into 
an ell ; and when, just as he was about to 
go in to dinner, he met her in the lobby and 
she smiled brightly at him and informed him 
that her eye was now completely recovered, 
he shied away like a startled mustang of the 
prairie, and, abandoning his intention of 
worrying the table d'htte in the same room 
with the amiable creature, tottered off to 
the smoking-room, where he did the best he 
could with sandwiches and coffee. 

Having got through the time as best he 
could till eleven o'clock, he went up to bed. 

THE room to which he and Lucille had 
been assigned by the management was on 
the second floor, pleasantly sunny by day 
and at night filled with cool and heartening 
fragrance of the pines. Hitherto Archie had 
always enjoyed taking a final smoke on the 
balcony overlooking the woods, but to-night 
such was his mental stress that he prepared 


P. G, Wodehouse 

21 5 

11 When he met Miss Silverton in the lobby 
smiled brightly at him, he shied away like 
mustang of the prairie/* 

to go to bed directly he had closed the door. 
He turned to the cupboard to get his pyjamas. 

His first thought, when even after a second 
scrutiny no pyjamas were visible, was that 
this was merely another of those things 
which happen on days when life goes wrong, 
He raked the cupboard for a third time with 
an annoyed eye, From every hook hung 
various garments of Lucille 's, but no pyjamas, 
He was breathing a soft malediction prepara- 
tory to embarking on a point-to-point hunt 
for his missing property, when something in 
the cupboard caught his eye and held him 
for a moment puzzled. 

He could have sworn that Lucille did not 

possess a mauve negligee. 
Why, she had told him a 

i dozen times that mauve 

was a colour which she 
did not like. He frow r ned 
perplexedly: and as he did 
so, from near the window 
came a soft cougH, 

Archie spun round and 
subjected the room to as 
close a scrutiny as that 
which he had bestowed 
upon the cupboard. 
Nothing w T as visible. The 
window opening on to 
the balcony gaped wide. 
The balcony w r as mani- 
festly empty* 
u Ufff!* 1 

This time there was no 

possibility of error, The 

cough had come from 

the immediate neigh- 

bourhood of the window. 

Archie was conscious 

of a pringly sensation 

about the roots of his closely- 

eropped back -hair, as he moved 

cautiously across the room. The 

affair was becoming uncanny : and, 

as lie tip- toed towards the window, 

old ghost stories, read in lighter 

moments before cheerful fires with 

plenty of light in the room, flitted 

through his mind. He had the 

feeling — precisely as every chappie 

in those stories had had — that he 

was not alone. 

Nor was he. In a basket behind 
an arm-chair, curled up, with his 
massive chin resting on the edge 
of the wicker-work, lay a fine 

" Urrf ! " said the bulldog. 
" Good God ! " said Archie. 
There was a lengthy pause, in 
which the bulldog looked ear- 
nestly at Archie and Archie 
looked earnestly at the bulldog. 
Normally, Archie was a dog- lover. His 
hurry was never so great as to prevent him 
stopping, when in the street, and intro- 
ducing himself to any dog he met. In a 
strange house, liis first act was to assemble 
the canine population, roll it on its back or 
backs, and punch it in the ribs. As a boy, 
his earliest ambition had been to become a 
veterinary surgeon ; and, though the years 
had cheated him of this career, he knew all 
aboyt dogs, their points, their manners, 
their customs, ^nd their treatment in sick- 
ness and in health. In short, he loved 
dogs, and, had they met under happier 
conditions, he won^d undoubtedly have been 



A Room at the Hermitage 

on excellent terms with this one within the 
space of a minute. But, as things were, he 
abstained from fraternizing and continued 
to goggle dumbly. 

And then his eye, wandering aside, collided 
with the following objects : a fluffy pink 
dressing-gown, hung over the back of a 
chair, an entirely strange suit-case, and, on 
the bureau, a photograph in a silver frame 
of a stout gentleman in evening-dress whom 
he had never seen before in his life. 

MUCH has been written of the emotions 
of the wanderer who, returning to his 
childhood home, finds it altered out of 
all recognition ; but poets have neglected 
the theme — far more poignant — of the man 
who goes up to his room in an hotel and 
finds it full of somebody else's dressing-gowns 
and bulldogs. 

Bulldogs ! Archie's heart jumped side- 
ways and upwards with a wiggling move- 
ment, turned two somersaults, and stopped 
beating. The hideous truth, working its way 
slowly through the concrete, had at last 
penetrated to his brain. He was not only in 
somebody else's room, and a woman's at 
that. He was in the room belonging to 
Miss Vera Silverton. 

He could not understand it. He would 
have been prepared to stake the last cent he 
could borrow from his father-in-law on the 
fact that he had made no error in the number 
over the door. Yet, nevertheless, such was 
the case, and, below par though his faculties 
were at the moment, he was sufficiently alert 
to perceive that it behoved liim to withdraw. 

He leaped to the door, and, as he did so, 
the handle began to turn. 

The cloud which had settled on Archie's 
mind lifted abruptly. For an instant he was 
enabled to think about a hundred times more 
quickly than was his leisurely wont. Good 
fortune had brought him to within easy 
reach of the electric-light switch. He snapped 
it back, and was in darkness. Then, diving 
silently and swiftly to the floor, he wriggled 
under the bed. The thud of his head against 
what appeared to be some sort of joist or 
support, unless it had been placed there by 
the maker as a practical joke, on the chance 
of this kind of thing happening some day, 
coincided with the creak of the opening 
door. Then the light was switched on 
again, and the bulldog in the corner gave a 
welcoming woofle. 

" And how is mamma's precious angel ? " 

Rightly concluding that the remark had 
not been addressed to himself and that no 
social obligation demanded that he reply, 
Archie pressed his cheek against the boards 
and said nothing. The question was not 
repeated, but from the other side of the 
room came the 3ound of a patted dog. 

Digitized by Google 

" Did he think his muzzer had fallen down 
dead and was never coming up ? " 

The beautiful picture which these words 
conjured up filled Archie with that yearning 
for the might-have-been which is always so 
painful. He was finding his position physi- 
cally as well as mentally distressing. It was 
cramped under the bed, and the boards were 
harder than anything he had ever encoun- 
tered. Also, it appeared to be the practice 
of the housemaids at the Hotel Hermitage 
to use the space below the beds as a deposi- 
tory for all the dust which they swept off 
the carpet, and much of this was insinuating 
itself into his nose and mouth. The two 
things which Archie would have liked most 
to do at that moment were first to kill Miss 
Silverton — if possible, painfully — and then to 
spend the remainder erf his life sneezing. 

After a prolonged period he heard a drawer 
open, and noted the fact as promising. As 
the old married man, he presumed that it 
signified the putting away of hairpins. 
About now the dashed woman would be 
looking at herself in the glass with her hair 
down. Then she would brush it. Then she 
would twiddle it up into thingummies. Say, 
ten minutes for this. And after that she 
would go to bed and turn out the light, and 
he would be able, after giving her a bit of 
time to go to sleep, to creep out and leg it. 
Allowing at a conservative estimate three- 
quarters of 

" Come out ! " 

Archie stiffened. For an instant a feeble 
hope came to him that this remark, like the 
others, might be addressed to the dog. 

" Come out from under that bed ! " said a 
stern voice. " And mind how you come ! 
I've got a pistol ! " 

" Well, I mean. to say, you know," said 
Archie, in a propitiatory voice, emerging 
from his lair like a tortoise and smiling as 
winningly as a man can who has just bumped 
his head against the leg of a bed, " I suppose 
all this seems fairly rummy, but — ■ — " 

" For the love of Mike I " said Miss 
Silverton. , 

The point seemed to Archie well taken 
and the comment on the situation neatly 

" What are you doing in my room ? " 

" Well, if it comes to that, you know — 
shouldn't have mentioned it if you hadn't 
brought the subject up in the course of 
general chit-chat — what are you doing in 
mine ? " 

" Yours ? " 

" Well, apparently there's been a bloomer 
of some species somewhere, but this was 
the room I had last night," said Archie. 

" But the desk-clerk said that he had 
asked you if it would be quite satisfactory 
to you giving it up to me, and you said yes. 


P, G, Wodehouse 

"'Come out from under that bed!* said a stern voice. 'And mind how you cornel 

I've got a pistol I * " 



A Room at the Hermitage 

I come here every summer, when I'm not 
working, and I always have this room." 

" By Jove ! I remember now. The chappie 
did say something to me about the room, 
but. I was- thinking of something else and it 
rather went over the top. So that's what 
he was talking about, was it ? " 

Miss Silverton was frowning. A moving- 
picture director, scanning her face, would 
have perceived that she was registering 

" Nothing breaks right for me in this 
darned world," she said, regretfully. " When 
I caught sight of your leg sticking out from 
under the bed, I did think that everything 
was all lined up for a real fine ad. at last. 
I could close my eyes and see the thing in 
the papers. On the front page, with photo- 
graphs : * Plucky Actress Captures Burglar.' 
Darn it ! " 

" Fearfully sorry, you know ! " 

" I just needed something like that. I've 
got a press-agent, and I will say for him 
that he eats well and sleeps well and has 
just enough intelligence to cash his monthly 
cheque without forgetting what he went 
into the bank for, but outside of that you 
can take it from me he's not one of the 
world's workers ! He's about as much solid 
use to a girl with aspirations as a pain in the 
lower ribs. It's three weeks since he got 
me into print at all, and then the brightest 
thing he could think up was that my favourite 
breakfast-fruit was an apple. Well, I ask 
you ! " 

" Rotten ! " said Archie. 

" I did think that for once my guardian 
angel had gone back to work and was doing 
something for me. ' Stage Star and Mid- 
night Marauder,' " murmured Miss Silverton, 
wistfully. " * Footlight Favourite Foils 
Felon.' " 

" Bit thick ! " agreed Archie, sympatheti- 
cally. " Well, you'll probably be wanting to 
get to bed and all that sort of rot, so I may 
as well be popping, what ! Cheerio ! " 

A sudden gleam came into Miss Silverton's 
compelling eyes. 

" Wait ! " 

" Eh ? " 

" Wait ! I've got an idea ! " The wistful 
sadness had gone from her manner. She 
was bright and alert. ,4 Sit down 1 " 

" Sit down ? " 

" Sure. Sit down and take the chill off 
the arm-chair. I've thought of something." 

Archie sat down as directed. At his elbow 
the bulldog eyed him gravely from the 

" Do they know you in this hotel ? " 

" Know me ? Well, I've been here about 
a week." 

" I mean, do they know who you are ? 
Do they know you're a good citizen ? " 

" Well, if it comes to that, I suppose they 
don't. But " 

" Fine ! " said Miss Silverton, apprecia- 
tively. " Then it's all right. We can carry 
on I " 

" Carry on ! " 

" Why, sure !. All I want is to get the 
thing into the papers. It doesn't matter 
to me if it turns out later that there was a 
mistake and that you weren't a burglar 
trying for my jewels after all. It makes 
just as good a story either way. I can't 
think why that never struck me before. 
Here have I been kicking because you weren't 
a real burglar, when it doesn't amount to a 
hill of beans whether you are or not. All 
I've got to do is to rush out and yell and 
rouse the hotel, and they come in and pinch 
you, and I give the story to the papers, and 
everything's fine ! " 

Archie leaped from his chair as though 
someone had punctured the seat with a 

" I say ! What ! " 

" What's on your mind ? " inquired Miss 
Silverton, considerately. " Don't you think 
it's a nifty scheme ? " 

" Nifty ! My dear old soul ! It's 
frightful ! " 

" Can't see what's wrong with it," grumbled 
Miss Silverton. " After I've had someone 
get New York on the long-distance 'phone 
and give the story to the papers you can 
explain, and they'll let you out. Surely to 
goodness you don't object, as a personal 
favour to me, to spending an hour or two in 
a cell ? Why, probably they haven't got 
a prison at all out in these parts, and you'll 
simply be locked in a room. A child of ten 
could do it on his head," said Miss Silverton. 
*' A child of six," she emended. 

" But, dash it — I mean — what I mean to 
say — I'm married ! " 

" Yes ? " said Miss Silverton, with the 
politeness of faint interest. " I've been 
married myself. I wouldn't say it's altogether 
a bad thing, mind you, for those that like it, 
but a little of it goes a long way. My first 
husband," she proceeded, reminiscently, 
" was a travelling man. I gave him a two- 
weeks try-out, and then I told him to make 
a noise like a train and go on travelling. 
.My second husband — now, he wasn't a 
gentleman in any sense of the word, I 
remember once " 

" You don't grasp the point. The jolly 
old point ! You fail to grasp it. If this 
bally thing comes out, my wife will be most 
frightfully sick ! " 

Miss Silverton regarded him with pained 

" Do you mean to say you would let a 
little thing like that stand in the way of 
my getting on the front page of all the 


P. G, Wodehouse 


papers — with photographs ? Where's 
chivalry ? " 

' Never mind my dashed chivalry 
" Besides, what does it matter if she does 
get a little sore ? She'll soon get over it. 
You can put that right. Buy her a box of 
candy* Not that I'm strong for candy 
myself. What I always say is, it may taste 
good, but look what it does to your hips ! 

I <nve you my honest word that, when I gave 
up eating candy, I lost eleven ounces the first 
week. My second husband^ — no, I'm a liar, 
it was my third— my third 

husband said- Say, what's 

the big idea ? Where arc you 
going ? " 

" Out I " said Archie, firmly, 

II Bally out I " 
A dangerous light flickered 

in Miss Silverton's eves. 

M That Tl be all of that ! " 
she said, raising 
" You stay right 
are, or 111 fire I " 

" Right-o ! " 

M I mean it I ' 

" My dear old 
soul/' said Archie, 
" in the recent 
unpleasantness in 
France I had 
chappies popping 
off things like that 
at me all day and 
every day for close 
on five years, and 
here I am, what ! 
I mean to say, if 
I've got to choose 
between staying 
here and being 
pinched in your 
room by the local 
constabulary and 
having the dashed thing get into the papers 
and all sorts of trouble happening, and my 
wife getting the wind up and — I say, if IVe 
got to choose '* 

41 Suck a lozenge and start again \ " said 
Miss Silver ton. 

" Well, what I mean to say is, I'd much 
rather take a chance of getting a bullet in 
the old bean than that. So loose it off and 
the best o' luck ! " 

Miss Silverton lowered the pistol, sank into 
a chair, and burst into tears, 

" I think you're the meanest man I ever 
met ! " she sobbed* " You know perfectly 
well the bang would send me into a fit I " 

* In that case," said Archie, relieved, 
" cheerio, good luck, pip-pip, toodle-oo, and 
good-bye-ee ! 1*11 be shifting ! " 

4i Yes, you will ! " cried Miss Silverton, 
energetically, recovering with amazing swift- 


ness from her collapse* " Yes, you 
will, I by no means suppose 
You think, just because Tm no 
champion with a pistol, I'm help- 
less. You wait ! Percy ! " 
11 My name is not Percy.'- 

I could kiss you 1 ' said Miss Silverton, 
emotionally, Archie backed hastily." 

41 I never said it was, Percy ! Percy, 
come to muzzer 1 " 

There was a creaking rustle from behind 
the arm-chair, A heavy body flopped on 
the carpet. Out into the room, heaving 
himself along as though sleep had stiffened 
his joints and breathing stertorously through 
his tilted nose, moved the fine bulldog. 
Seen in the open, he looked even more 
formidable than he had done in his basket. 

M Guard him, Percy! Good dog, guard him ! 
Oh, heavens ! What's the matter with him ? " 

And with these words the emotional 
woman, uttering a wail of anguish, flung 
herself on the floor beside the animal, 

Percy was, indeed, in manifestly bad 
shape. He seemed quite unable to drag his 
limbs across the room. There was a curious 
arch in his back, and, as his mistress touched 
him, he cried out plaintively, 



A Room at the Hermitage 

" Percy ! Oh, what is the matter with 
him ? His nose is burning ! " 

Now was the time, with both sections of 
the enemy's forces occupied, for Archie to 
have departed softly from the room. But 
never, since the day when at the age of 
eleven he had carried a large, damp, and 
muddy terrier with a sore foot three miles 
and deposited him on the best sofa in his 
mother's drawing-room, had he been able 
to ignore the spectacle of a dog in trouble. 

" He does look bad, what ! " 

" He's dying ! Oh, he's dying ! Is it 
distemper ? He's never had distemper." 

Archie regarded the sufferer with the 
grave eye of the expert. He shook his head. 

" It's not that," he said. " Dogs with 
distemper make a sort of snifting noise." 

" But he is making a snifting noise ! " 

" No, he's making a snuffling noise. 
Great difference between snuffling and snift- 
ing. Not the same thing at all. I mean to 
say, when they snift they snift, and when 
they snuffle they — as it were — snuffle. That's 
how you can tell. If you ask me " — he 
passed his hand over the dog's back. Percy 
uttered another cry* *' I know what's the 
matter with him." 

"A brute of a man kicked him at rehearsal. 
Do you think he's injured internally ? " 

" It's rheumatism," said Archie. " Jolly old 
rheumatism. That's all that's the trouble." 

" Are you sure ? " 

" Absolutely ! " 

" But what can I do ? " 

" Give him a good hot bath, and mind and 
dry him well. He'll have a good sleep then, 
and won't have any pain. Then, first thing 
to-morrow, you want to give him salicylate 
of soda." 

" I'll never remember that." 

" I'll write it down for you. You ought to 
give him from ten to twenty grains three 
times a day in an ounce of water. And rub 
him with any good embrocation." 

" And he won't die ? " 

" Die ! He'll live to be as old as you are ! 
I mean to say " 

" I could kiss you ! " said Miss Silverton, 

Archie backed hastily. 

" No. no, absolutely not ! Nothing like 
that required, really ! " 

" You're a darling ! " 

" Yes. 1 mean no. No, no, really ! " 

" I don't know what to say. What can I 
say ? " 

" Good night," said Archie. 

" I wish there was something I could do ! 
If you hadn't been here, I should have gone 
off my head ! " 

A great idea flashed across Archie's brain. 

" Do you really want to do something ? " 

" Anything ! " 

" Then I do wish, like a dear sweet soul, 
you would pop straight back to New York 
to-morrow and go on with those rehearsals." 

Miss Silverton shook her head. 

" I can't do that ! " 

" Oh, right-o ! But it isn't much to ask, 
what ! " 

" Not much to ask ! I'll never forgive 
that man for kicking Percy ! " 

" Now listen, dear old soul. You've got 
the story all wrong. As a matter of fact, 
jolly old Benham told me himself that 
he has the greatest esteem and respect for 
Percy, and wouldn't have kicked him for the 
world. And, you know it was more a 
sort of push than a kick. You might almost 
call it a light shove. The fact is, it was 
beastly dark in the theatre, and he was legging 
it sideways for some reason or other, no 
doubt with the best motives, and unfor- 
tunately he happened to stub his toe on the 
poor old bean." 

" Then why didn't he say so ? " 

" As far as. I could make out, you didn't 
give him a chance." 

Miss Silverton wavered. 

" I always hate going back after I've 
walked out on a show," she said. " It seems 
so weak I " 

" Not a bit of it 1 They'll give three hearty 
cheers and think you a topper. Besides, 
you've got to go to New York in any case. 
To take Percy to a vet., you know, what ! " 

" Of course. How right you always are ! " 
Miss Silverton hesitated again. " Would you 
really be glad if I went back to the show ? " 

" I'd go singing about the hotel I Great 
pal of mine, Benham. A thoroughly cheery 
old bean, and very cut up about the whole 
affair. Besides, think of ail the coves thrown 
out of work — the thingummabobs and the 
poor what-d'you-call-'ems I " 

" Very well." 

" You'll do it ? " 

" Yes." 

" I say, you really are one of the best I 
Absolutely like mother made ! That's fine ! 
Well, I think I'll be saying good night." 

" Good night. And thank you so much I " 

" Oh, no, rather not ! " 

Archie moved to the door. 

" Oh, by the way." 

" Yes ? " 

" If I were you, I think I should catch 
the very first train you can get to New York. 
You see — er — you ought to take Percy to 
the vet. as soon as ever you can." 

" You really do think of everything/' said 
Miss Silverton. 

" Yes/' said Archie, meditatively. 

Next Month: "First Aid for Looney B indie" 

" F ~ 






T~ HaudGn 



ONE of the queerest industries on 
record is on the point of reviving, 
after having been practically wiped 
out of existence by the war, As 
a consequence, the surprise of his life may 
be in store for the white man who, a few 
months hence, is shipwrecked on a primitive 
island in the South Seas, or who, attempting 
the Cat ro-to-t he-Cape or the London- to- 
Melbourne flight, comes down with his plane 
in the middle of the African jungle, or some- 
where in the Malay Straits, or in the wilds of 

As likely as not, the ftrst lot of aborigines 
this traveller encounters will be attired, not 
in the garb of Nature, nor yet in skins and 
feathers, but in the former costumes of the 
chorus men in " The Bing Boys on Broad- 
way." The belles of the native village, more 
probably than not, will be found " all dressed 
up " in the frills and furbelows once sported 
by fair members of the cast of " Mr. Man- 
hattan/' or possibly in sections of jazz gowns 
that originally were worn on the stages of 
the London Hippodrome or Alhambra* 

And when the " crashed " aviator or the 
shipwrecked mariner is lugged into the 
presence of King Mumbo Jumbo XIV., 
it's odds on that he will find that dusky 
monarch swaggering in garish habiliments 
that he last saw across the footlights of the 
Shaftesbury or the " Pa v." Or possibly his 
sable Majesty will be togged out as Macbeth 
or Cyrano de Bergerac, 

A native "knut." 

j". ■•..-.'! a pkuUy. 

This was the surprising use that, a few 
years before the war came, had been dis- 
covered for the discarded tinsel and spangles 
of the stage. For some time previous to 
August, 1914, when theatrical costumes had 
been worn on the boards until they could be 
worn no more, or when a lot of them were 
absolutely going begging as the result of a 
" frost " which shrivelled up the show in 
which they figured, they went neither into 
the rag-bag nor to the " old clo' " man, but 
were sent instead to gladden the dusky 
denizens of Central Africa and the untutored 
aborigines of other semi-wild regions of the 
inhabited globe. The black man particularly 
loves nothing better than dressing up in the 
gaudiest raiment that he can get hold of, 
and the dusky aborigine, it proved, was 
tickled half to death with the attire of a 
musical -comedy potentate and sent into 
rhapsodies by the gem -studded robes that 
Cinderella's Prince wears in the pantomime, 
or a suit of second-hand stage armour* It 



Savage Swells 

also proved that he was prepared to barter 
practically his earthly all for the sake of 
getting hold of such % ' duds," 

THIS industry of passing theatrical cast- 
offs along to ingenuous natives in 
various parts of the world had just 
got going well and begun to pay fat divi- 
dends when the war brought it to a 
complete stop. The consequences have 
been unfortunate for the purveyors of the 
costumes, and positively tragic for poor 
old Chief Mhenga I., whose kraal is eight 
days' trek due north from Sierra Leone, 
and goodness knows how many other 
dusky chieftains, to say nothing of their 
followers. Drop a tear of compassion for 
these desolated monarchs who haven't had 
any new " glad rags " for over five years, 
and must be sick to death of the ' Hello, 
Tango," ' Pink Lady," and "Quaker Girl" 
costumes, which were the last they had 
from London and are now , too shabby to 
wear even at a third-class cannibalistic 
banquet where fricasseed German is the pi ice 
dc resistance. 

A new and gladdening era is, however, on 
the eve of dawning for the denizens of the 
African jungle, the proletariat of Papua, and 
the bourgeoisie of Borneo, for the business 
of supplying them w T ith old " actor clothes if 
is getting on its feet again and soon will be 
in full swing. Even now a big consignment 
of disused theatrical costumes is being got 

ready for shipment to the Dark Continent. 
In a big London warehouse recently visited 
by the writer shelves and counters are piled 
high with the cast-olf garments of queens 
and columbines, kings and nobles, knights 
and mountebanks of the stage. AH these 
are eventually to deck the persons of monarchs 
of the jungle and their dusky consorts, who 
long ago grew weary of leading the simple 

Previous to the war, almost the whole 
business of disposing of the discarded raiment 
of the stage to sable swells and belles was in 
the hands of one man, who does business in 
London,- The story of how this unique and 
highly picturesque industry came into being 
is entertaining. It may sound almost too 
good to be true, but it was told to me by 
the erstwhile outfitter of cannibal kings and 
queens himself. His name is John Hyman, 
and apart from his former business as the 
Worth of West Africa and the Poire t of 
Polynesia, he is one of the best-known of 
London stage costumiers. 

"It 'was about eight years ago that I 
started selling old stage costumes to African 
and other natives," Mr, Hyman said, rolling 
a long black cigar to the other side of his 
mouth, * 4 and I was inspired to begin doing 
it by a queer and fairly exciting adventure 
that befell a friend of mine, He's a great 
traveller, and, incidentally, a very fancy 
dresser — a regular ' knut p J in fact, At the 
time I speak of he was the only passenger on 

A result of the celling of old theatrical costumes io duaky kings, 


Hayden Church 


Sable swells and belles. 

a tramp steamer that was working its way 
from Beira to Chinde, if I remember rightly, 
on the east coast of Africa. Well, the ship 
was wrecked, and my friend was cast up on 
a cannibal island, whose inhabitants were 
eager to sample some real white meat. All 
that kept this chap from figuring as the 
principal dainty on the next day's menu 
was his extremely saucy clothing. As luck 
would have it, he was wearing something 
choice in, the way of a fancy waistcoat, 
which went with a real Bond Street suit of 
mixed tweeds, and underneath he had some 
pink silk underwear that had cost two pounds 
the garment in Piccadilly. 

" This raiment made a big hit with the 
cannibal chiefs, and it saved my friend's life, 
for he told the chiefs that they might have 
every rag he had on if they would keep him 
out of the casserole ; and this they agreed 
to, it not seeming to occur to them that 
after he had been sent along to the chef his 
clothes would be theirs anyway. Anyhow, 
they spared him for the sake of his togs, 
and my friend, wrapped principally in a 
reverie, was taken in one of the catamarans 
that they use out there to a neighbouring 
island, where he got in with a consul, and 
eventually was put on board another ship. 
On the way back he did some hard thinking, 
and when he got" home he told me that if 
the natives were as pleased as all that with 

just ordinary things like waisqoats and 
underwear, they would trade almost any- 
thing for really showy stuff like theatrical 
costumes. I saw the point quick, and that's 
how it started." 

HYM AN smiled expansively. This trades- 
man's age may be guessed at sixty 
odd, and he has been one of London's 
leading costumiers for thirty years or more. 
To-day he can trick you out at a minute's 
notice as anything from an Indian rajah to an 
American cowboy, and when I looked in on 
him the other day he was in close confab with 
one of the most popular of British film actors, 
who was in quest of a pair of old-fashioned 
top-boots to wear in a forthcoming " movie " 
production which is to be enacted somewhere 
on the Yorkshire moors. 

Within a day or two of hearing his friend's 
story of his adventure with the cannibals, 
Hyman had made arrangements for getting 
hold of cast-off stage clothes, particularly 
the disused habiliments of musical-comedy 
and pantomime performers, and as soon as 
these began to pour into his London establish- 
ment he started organizing a staff of travellers 
to bring their beauties to the attention of 
aborigines the world over. When the war 
began he was selling his picturesque wares 
in both West and East Africa, as well as in 
Siam, the islands off the Malay Peninsula, 



Savage Swells 

and the Australian " bush," and day by 
day the business of arraying the untutored 
savage in the trappings of the footlights was 
being carried farther afield. 

The last time I talked with the former 
champion pusher of Hyman's retinue of 
salesmen, he was just starting for Mar- 
seilles, whence he was to sail for Bombay. 
With him he was taking a " special line," 
consisting of most of the costumes used in 
three English pantomimes of the season 
of 191011 — to wit, "Dick Whittington," 
"Cinderella," and "The Forty Thieves"— 
all left-overs from the last tour of the 
No. 2 " Waltz Dream " company in the 
provinces, and other sartorial confections 
that were expected to make a strong appeal 
to the swarthy henchmen of the Gaekwar of 
Baroda and the murky myrmidons of the 
Maharajah of Kapurthala. 

Few of the natives upon whom Hyman 
used to work off his second-hand stage finery 
have any real money, of course, so the 
costumier let them settle in " kind," most 
of his African customers stumping up with 
rubber and palm-oil, and most of his Siamese 
ones in ivory. This business, when in full 
swing, must be a perfect gold-mine, for while 
these old theatrical cast-offs can be had for 
a song, what the purveyors of them extract 
from their cannibalistic and other clients in 
exchange is more like the price of an aria 
by Melba. Hyman must have made a 
mighty good thing out of the trade he did in 
the past, and ought to be completely happy 
at the memory of this. He isn't quite, 
however, being harassed by thoughts of the 
profits that might have been his had he only 
got into the field sooner, or before, as he 
expressed it, " the meddling missionaries 
spoiled the natives by half-civilizing them." 

" Why, for a thing like that," he said, 
pointing lovingly to a gorgeous stage crown 
fashioned in gilt and encrusted with imitation 
diamonds and rubies which reposed under a 
glass case in his showroom, " I could have 
had their whole blooming country ! " 

Savages the world over, Hyman says, are 
attracted by gaudy colours, red and yellow 
being the favourite hues, and they all have 
one characteristic in common, which is a 
strong dislike for covering their legs. So 
the lovely spectacle has been presented in 
many a native village on the Gold Coast 
and elsewhere of a swarthy chieftain clad 
as a prince in some Shakespearean play, 
or as the Mikado, or maybe as the King 
in " The Sleeping Beauty," with a pair 
of naked black legs spoiling the other- 
wise dazzling effect of gorgeous plumage. 
The denizens of Northern Zululand have, 
according to Hyman, a regular passion for 
tin stage-armour, and it seems they insist 
on wearing it even on the hottest days. He 

declares, too, that the fine feathers of stage 
heroes and swell chorus men have a distinct 
psychological effect on their dusky wearers. 
Native soldiers fight better when dressed in 
gaudy uniforms, and Hyman says he has 
found that gold lace and brass buttons will 
make a henpecked Ethiopian brave enough 
to cheek his mother-in-law. 

HE has some queer stories to tell of the 
parts that second-hand actor-clothes 
have played in the life of the jungle, 
and the strangest of the lot might have seemed 
too " steep" to be related in print, had it not 
been confirmed in all the essential details 
by an English missionary who was seen by 
the writer on his return, not long afterwards, 
from a lengthy residence in Africa. 

The scene of this happening was a district 
in the Canicage region — Portuguese territory 
— which is, or was, ruled over by a chieftain 
who used to be one of Hyman's best custo- 
mers. This dusky ruler's extensive ward- 
robe included, at last accounts, one complete 
British First Lord's uniform, as worn by Sir 
Joseph Porter in " Pinafore," the costume of 
a Spanish toreador that formerly figured in 
if Carmen," and the complete livery of a 
flunkey in a Drury Lane melodrama, besides 
other ornate get-ups that must have looked 
weird enough in an environment of mud-huts 
and ju-ju. 

The old chief ruled in peace until a Pre- 
tender arose in the land ift the person of an 
ambitious nephew of his. The latter began 
to foment a revolution, and attracted so 
many adherents among the " have-nots " of 
the Canicage region that things began to 
look uncommonly black for the reigning 
monarch. The royal crown appeared to be 
on the point of changing heads, when the 
astute old king tried bribery as a last resort. 
He sent for the Pretender, and without 
mincing matters proposed to buy him off. 
The inducement he offered was nothing more 
or less than a " Hamlet " costume, which 
the king had bought from one of Hyman's 
travelling men. Maybe it was the one that 
Sarah Bernhardt wore when she played the 
melancholy Dane in Paris, and caused a duel 
between two dramatic critics who disputed 
as to whether Hamlet was fat or lean. Any- 
how, it proved too attractive a bait to be 
rejected by the aspirant to the throne of 
Canicage. After hesitating awhile — possibly 
soliloquizing "To be or not to be ? " after 
the fashion of the Prince of Denmark himself 
— he capitulated to the lure of the .costume 
and agreed to call off the revolution. The 
old chief muttered " Saved ! " and went 
back to the throne-room to receive an 
anti-Pussyfoot deputation that was due at 
the palace at 3.30 p.m. 

Hyman say§ 1;"iat a Congo belle became 


Hayden Church 


the favourite wife of her ebony lord by dint 
of attiring herself in the spangles and lace 
that once adorned a member of the ballet 
at Co vent Garden Opera House ; and he also 
told of a novel spectacle that greeted the 
eyes of one of his rt bagmen M who visited a 
native village on the Gold Coast for the first 
time. It seems that, in the meantime, the 
inhabitants of this village had done some 
bartering with those of another one nearer 
the coast where Hyman had already placed 
a fair-sized consignment of cast-offs, and 
the first thing the traveller saw when he 

picturesque trade includes types of most of 
the uniforms that were worn in the British 
Army before khaki came in, and no end of 
flashy liveries that once adorned the powdered 
footmen of May fair and Park Lane, Every 
year, by the way, the magnificent dark blue 
and gold-laced liveries of London's Lord 
Mayor's servants are renewed and the old 
ones sold at auction, and most of them used 
to be bought by Hyman, and in the fullness 
of time gladdened the hearts of his dusky 

Miss Decima Moore, the English actress 

The old chief went back to the throne-room to receive an anti- Pussyfoot deputation." 

struck the second town was a local beauty 
who was sporting a huge H Merry Widow " 
hat and a sash of faded pink ribbon, but the 
remainder of whose costume could have been 
pretty successfully hidden under a postage- 

The ornate " second-hands " that are thus 
unloaded on the heathen in his blindness do 
not consist entirely of theatrical costumes, 
however. Pretty nearly every kind of showy 
apparel 4t goes " with native tribes, and the 
stock-in-trade of the London syndicate that 
has recently been formed to embark in this 

who married a British Administrator in 
Central Africa and wrote a book about her 
travels there, told of a potent chief who 
ruled many thousands of warriors entirely 
by virtue of possessing the gorgeous robes 
of a sheriff of the City of London ; and it's 
even betting that he got them from Hyman. 
The latter says that in Siam the natives will 
barter the last elephant tusk they have in 
the till for a second-hand frock-coat ; while 
in the islands of the Indian Ocean the kind 
of helmet worn by an English policeman is 
regarded as a thing of ravishing beauty. 









"I must apologize. Sir Robert/' said Bill Brabazon, bursting into the billiard-room, "for what has 
happened. I've had the most damnable row with that fellow Denton and I've laid him out." 
Consternation reigned among the house-party till Major Seymour asked: "Which is the room? 

There's no good standing here talking " "Here we are," said Sir Robert, leading the way; 

"this is the door." The room was in darkness, and in the air there hung a rank, fetid smell. A 
lamp was lighted and then a man was seen lying across the windowsilL Later, when, the police 
inspector arrived, the window-sill was empty, the body was gone. 

"I left him lying, as we found him, half in and half out of the window," said Seymour. "His 
legs were inside, his head and shoulders from the waist upwards were outside." 

Then a constable interrupted him. 

"Here's the body, sir," he cried. "Outside in the flower-bed/' 


THE inspector went quickly to the 
window and peered out; then he 
turned and confronted Sir Robert 
and Seymour. 

" He's dead right enough now," he said, 
gravely. " It seems a pity that you gentle- 
men didn't take a little more trouble to find 
out if he was dead in the first place. You 
might have saved his life." 

" Hang it, man ! " exploded Seymour, 
angrily, " do you suppose I don't know a 
dead man when I see one ? " 

" I don't know whether you do or don't," 
answered the other, shortly. "But, I've 
never yet heard of a dead man getting up 
and moving to aji adjacent flower-bed. And 
you say yourself that you left him lying over 
the window-sill." 

For a moment an angry flush mounted on 
the soldier's face ; then, with an effort, he 
controlled himself. On the face of it, the in- 
spector was perfectly justified in his remark : 
dead men do not move. The trouble was 
that Bob Seymour had felt the dead man's 
heart and his pulse; had turned the light 
of his torch from close range into his eyes. 
And he knew that he had made no mistake ; 
he knew that the man was dead when he 
turned out the light and left the room. 

Copyright, 1020, 


He knew it ; but— dead men do not move. 
What had happened in the room during the 
time they were waiting for the police ? 
The key had been in his pocket : who had 
moved the body ? And why ? Not Bill 
Brabazon : that he knew. 

With a puzzled frown he crossed slowly 
towards the two policemen, who were hauling 
the limp form through the open window. 
And once again he paused and sniffed. 

" That smell again, Sir Robert," he re- 

" What smell ? " demanded the inspector, 
as they laid the dead man on the floor. 

" Don't you notice it ? A strange, fetid, 
rank smell." 

The inspector sniffed perfunctorily. 4 ' I 
smell the ordinary smell of rain on dead 
leaves," he remarked. " What about it ? " 

" Nothing, except that there are no dead 
leaves in June," returned Seymour, shortly. 

" Well, sir," snorted the inspector, 
" whether there are dead leaves or not, 
we've got a dead man on the floor. And I 
take it he wasn't killed by a smell, anyway." 

In the full light of the room Denton was 
an even more unpleasant sight than when he 
had lain sprawling over the window-sill. The 
water dripped from his sodden clothing and 

by H. C. McNeiie, 

j 1 1 1 .* 1 1 1 


H. C. McNeile ("Sapper") 


'The inspector straightened up and turned to Sir Robert * It looks as if he had been 
strangled, sir,' he remarked, professionally." 

— I,.. Original from 




The Green Death 

ran in little pools on the floor ; the dark, 
puffy face was smeared with a layer of wet 
earth. But it was not at these details that 
Bob Seymour was staring : it was an angry- 
looking red weal round the neck just above 
the collar that riveted his attention. The 
inspector, taking no further notice of the 
two spectators, was proceeding methodically 
with his examination. First he turned out 
all the pockets, laying the contents neatly 
on the table ; then, with the help of the 
constable, he turned the body over on its 
face. A little fainter, but still perfectly 
discernible, the red weal could be traced 
continuously round the neck ; and after a 
while the inspector straightened up and 
turned to Sir Robert. 

" It looks as if he had been strangled, sir," 
he remarked, professionally. " I should 
imagine from the size of the mark that a 
fairly thin rope was used. Have you any 
idea whether anyone had a grudge against 
him ? The motive was obviously not 

" Strangled ! " cried Sir Robert, joining 
the other three. " But I don't understand." 
He turned perplexedly to Bob Seymour, who 
was standing near the window absorbed in 
thought. Then, a little haltingly, he con- 
tinued : " Unfortunately there was a very 
severe row between him and another of my 
guests earlier in the evening." 

" Where did the row take place ? " 

" Er— in this room." 

" Was anyone else present ? " 

" No. No one heard them quarrelling. 
But Mr. Brabazon, the guest in question, 
made no secret about it — afterwards. He 
told us in the billiard-room that — that they 
had come to blows in here." 

" I would like to see Mr. Brabazon, Sir 
Robert," said the inspector. " Perhaps you 
would be good enough to send for him." 

" I will go and get him myself," returned 
the other, leaving the room. 

" A very remarkable affair," murmured 
Seymour, as the door closed behind his host. 
" Don't you agree with me, Inspector ? " 

" In what way ? " asked the officer, 

But the soldier was lighting a cigarette, 
and made no immediate answer. " May I 
ask," he remarked at length, " if you've ever 
trifed to strangle a man with a rope ? Be- 
cause," he continued, when the other merely 
snorted indignantly, " I have. During the 
war — in German East Africa. And it took 
me a long while. You see, if you put a slip- 
knot round a man's neck and pull, he comes 
towards you. You've got to get very close 
to him and kneel on him, or wedge him in 
some way, so that he can't move, before you 
can do much good in the strangling line." 

- Quite an amateur detective, Major 

Digitized by Ijt 

Seymour," said the other, condescendingly. 
" If you will forgive my saying so, however, 
it might have been better had you concen- 
trated on seeing whether the poor fellow was 

He turned as the door opened, and Bill 
Brabazon came in, followed by Sir Robert. 

" This is Mr. Brabazon, Inspector," said 
the latter. 

The officer eyed the youngster keenly for 
a moment before he spoke. Then he pointed 
to a chair, so placed that the light of the 
lamp would fall on the face of anyone sitting 
in it. 

" Will you tell me everything you know, 
Mr. Brabazon ? And I should advise you 
not to attempt to conceal anything." 

" I've got nothing to conceal," answered 
the boy, doggedly. " I found Denton in 
here about half-past ten, and we started 
quarrelling. I'd been trying to avoid him 
the whole evening, but there was no getting 
away from him this time. After a while we 
began to fight, and he hit me in the face. 
Then I saw red, and really went for him. 
And I laid him out. That's all I know about 

" And what did you do after you laid him 
out ? " 

" I went out into the garden to cool down. 
Then when the rain came on, I went to the 
billiard -room and told Sir Robert. And the 
first thing I knew about this," with a shudder 
he looked at the dead body, " was when 
Mr. Trayne came into the billiard -room and 
told us." 

' Mr. Trayne ! Who is he, Sir Robert ? " 

" Another guest stopping in the house. 
Do you wish to see him ? " 

" Please." The inspector paced thought- 
fully up and down the room. 

" The light was on, wasn't it, Bill, when 
you left the room ? " said Seymour. 

" It was. Why, I saw* his shadow on the 
lawn, as I told you." 

" Did you ? " said the inspector, watching 
him narrowly. " Would you be surprised 
to hear, Mr. Brabazon, that this unfortunate 
man was strangled ? " 

" Strangled ! " Bill Brabazon started up 
from his chair. " Strangled I Good God ! 
Who by ? " 

" That is precisely what we want to find 
out," said the inspector. 

" But, good heavens ! man," cried the 
boy, excitedly, " don't you see that that 
exonerates me. I didn't strangle him : I 
only hit him on the jaw. And that shadow 
I saw," he swung round on Seymour, ,§ must 
have been the murderer." 

" You wish to see me, Inspector ? " 
Trayne 's voice from the doorway interrupted 
him, and he sat back in his chair again. And 
Seymour, watching the joyful look on Bill's 


H. C. McNeile ("Sapper") 


face, knew that he spoke the truth. His 
amazement at hearing the cause of death 
had been too spontaneous not to be genuine. 
In his own mind Bill Brabazon regarded 
himself as cleared : the trouble was that other 
people might not. The majority of mur- 
derers have died, still protesting their 

" I understand that it was you, Mr. 
Trayne, who first discovered the body," said 
the inspector. 

" It was. I came in and found the room 
in darkness. I wished to study an inscrip- 
tion by the window to which Sir Robert had 
alluded at dinner. I struck a match, and 
then — I saw the body lying half in half out 
over the sill. It gave me a dreadful shock — 
quite dreadful. And I at once went to the 
billiard-room for assistance." 

" So whoever did it turned out the light," 
said the inspector, musingly. " What time 
was it, Mr. Trayne, when you made the 
discovery ? " 

" About half -past eleven, I should think." 

" An hour after the quarrel. And in that 
hour someone entered this room either by 
the window or the door, and committed the 
deed. He, further, left either by the window 
or the door. How did you leave, Mr. 
Brabazon ? " 

" By the door," said the youngster. " The 
flower-bed outside the window is too wide 
to jump." 

" Then if the murderer entered by the 
window, he will have left footmarks. if he 
entered by the door and left by it the pre- 
sumption is that he is a member of the house. 
No one who was not would risk leaving by 
the door after committing such an act." 

" Most ably reasoned," murmured Seymour, 

But the inspector was far too engrossed 
with his theory to notice the slight sarcasm 
in the other's tone. With a powerful electric 
torch he was searching the ground outside 
the window for any trace of footprints. The 
mark in the ground where the body had 
lain was clearly defined ; save for that, how- 
ever, the flower-bed revealed nothing. It 
was at least fifteen feet wide'; to cross it, 
leaving no trace, appeared a physical im- 
possibility. And after a while the inspector 
turned back into the room and looked gravely 
at Sir Robert Deering. 

'* I should like to have every member of 
the house-party and all your servants in 
here, Sir Robert, one by one," he remarked. 

" Then you think it was done by someone 
in the house, Inspector ? " Sir Robert was 
looking worried. 

" I prefer not to say anything definite at 
present," answered the official, guardedly. 
" Perhaps we can start with the house- 

his shoulder, Sir Robert 
the inspector turned to 

by \j 



With a shrug of 
left the room, and 
the constable. 

" Lend a hand here, Murphy ; we'll put 
the body behind the screen before any of 
the ladies come in/' 

" Great Scot ! man," cried Seymour. 
" What do you want the ladies for ? You 
don't suggest that a woman could have 
strangled him ? " 

" You will please allow me to know my 
own business best," said the other, coldly. 
" Shut and bolt the windows, Murphy." 

The rain had stopped as the policeman 
crossed the room to carry out his orders. 
And it was as he stood by the open window, 
with his hands upraised to the sash, that he 
suddenly stepped back with a startled 

" Something 'it me in the face, sir," he 
muttered. Then he spat disgustedly. " Gdw ! 
what a filthy taste ! " 

But the inspector was not interested — he 
was covering the dead man's face with a 
pocket handkerchief, and after a moment's 
hesitation, the constable again reached up 
for the sash, and pulled it down. Only the 
soldier had noticed the little incident, and 
he was staring like a man bereft of his senses 
at a point just above the policeman's head. 

" Don't move," he ordered, harshly. 
" Stand still, constable." 

With a startled look the policeman obeyed, 
and Seymour stepped over to him. And 
then he did a peculiar thing. He lit a match 
and turned to the inspector. 

#l Just look at this match, Inspector," he 
murmured. .. " Burning brightly, isn't it ? " 
He moved it a little, and suddenly the flame 
turned to a smoky orange colour. For a 
moment or two it spluttered ; then it went 
out altogether. 

" You can move now, constable," he said. 
41 I didn't want any draught for a moment." 
He looked at Inspector Grayson with a 
smile. " Interesting little experiment that 
—wasn't it ? " 

Grayson snorted. M If you're quite finished 
your conjuring tricks, I'll get on with the 
business," he remarked. " Come along over 
here, Murphy." 

" What is it, Bob ? " Bill Brabazon cried, 

" The third point, Bill," answered the 
other. " Great Scot ! what a fool I've been. 
Though it's the most extraordinary case I've 
ever come across." 

14 Think you can reconstruct the crime ? " 
sneered the inspector. 

-< I don't think — I know," returned the 
other quietly. " But not to-night. There's 
the rain again." 

" And mightl ask what clues you possess ?" 

" Only one rcioro than you, and that vou 



The Green Death 

can get from Sir Robert. I blush to admit 
it, but until a moment ago I attached no 
importance to it. It struck me as being 
merely the foolish jest of a stupid man. 
Now it does not strike me quite in that 
light. Ask him/' he continued, and his 
voice was grim, " for the translation of 
that inscription under the window. And 
when you've got that, concentrate for a 
moment on the other end of the dead man* 
— his trousers just above his ankles." 

" They're covered with dirt," said the 
inspector, impressed, in spite of himself, 
by the other's tone. 

" Yes — but what sort of dirt ? Dry, 
dusty, cob-webby dirt — not the caked mud 
on his knees. Immense amount of import- 
ance in dirt, Inspector." 

But Mr. Grayson was recovering his 
dignity. " Any other advice ? " he sneered. 

" Yes. Hire a man and practise strangling 
him. Then buy a really good encyclopaedia 
and study it. You'll find a wealth of inter- 
esting information in it." He strolled 
towards the door. " If you want me I 
shall be in the billiard-room. And, by 
the way, with regard to what I said about 
strangling, don't forget that the victim 
cannot come towards you if his feet are 
off the ground." 

' Perhaps you'll have the murderer for 
me in the billiard-room," remarked the 
inspector, sarcastically. 

"I'm afraid not," answered the other. 
" The real murderer, unfortunately, is already 
dead. I'll look for his accomplice in the 

With a slight smile he closed the door and 
strolled into the hall. The house-party 
were being marshalled by Sir Robert pre- 
paratory to their inquisition ; the servants 
stood huddled together in sheepish groups 
under the stern eye of the butler. 

" Have you found out anything, Major 
Seymour ? " With entreaty in her eyes, 
Ruth Brabazon came up to him. 

" Yes, Miss Brabazon, I have," answered 
the man, reassuringly. " You can set your 
mind absolutely at rest." 

" You know who did it ? " she cried, 

" I do," he answered. " But unfortu- 
nately I can't prove it to-night. And you 
mustn't be alarmed at the attitude taken up 
by the inspector. He's not in a very good 
temper, and I'm afraid I'm the cause." 

" But what does he think ? " 

" I should hesitate to say what great 
thoughts were passing through his brain," 
said Seymour. " But I have a shrewd sus- 
picion that he has already made up his mind 
that Bill did it." 

" And who did do it, Bob ? " She laid her 
hand beseechingly on his arm as she spoke. 

Digitized by v^iOOQ IC 

" I think it's better to say nothing at the 
moment," he answered, gently. " There are 
one or two points I've got to make absolutely 
certain of first. Until then — won't you trust 
me, Ruth ? " 

" Trust you ! Why, my dear " She 

turned away as she spoke, and Bob Seymour 
barely heard the last two words. But he did 
just hear them. And once again the dead man 
was forgotten. 

" TV H AY * borrow y° ur car » Sir Robert ? 

I y I I want to go to London and bring 
back a friend of mine — Sir Gilbert 
Strangways." Bob Seymour approached his 
host after breakfast the following morning. 
" I'll have to be back by three, in time for 
the inquest, and it's very important." 

" Strangways — the explorer I Certainly, 
Seymour ; though I'm not keen on adding to 
the house-party at present." 

" It's essential, I'm afraid. They can 
only bring in one verdict this afternoon — 
Murder. That ass Grayson was nosing round 
this morning, and he, at any rate, is con- 
vinced of it." 

" What— that Bill did it ? " muttered the 

" He's outside there now, making notes." 

" You don't think the boy did it, do you, 
Seymour ? " 

" I know he didn't, Sir Robert. But to 
prove it is a different matter. Mav I order 
the car ? " 

" Yes, yes, of course. Anything you like. 
Why on earth did I ever ask the poor fellow 
down here ? " Sir Robert walked agitatedly 
up and down the hall. " And anyway, who 
did do it ? " He threw out his hands in 
despair. " He can't have done it himself." 

" All in good time, Sir Robert," said the 
other, gravely. ' The lucky thing for you 
is that you have practically never used that 

" What do you mean ? " muttered his host; 
going a little white. 

" If you had, the chances are that this 
house- party would never have taken place," 
answered Seymour. " At least, not with you 
as the host." 

" My God ! " cried the other. " You don't 
mean to say that there's anything in that 
inscription ! " 

" It's the key to everything," returned the 
other, shortly. " To put it mildly, your pre- 
decessor had a peculiar sense of humour." 

Ten minutes later he was getting into the 
car, when Inspector Grayson appeared round 
the corner. 

" You won't forget the inquest is at three, 
Major Seymour ? " he said, a trifle sharply. 

" I sha'n't miss it," answered the soldier. 

" Found the murderer yet ? " asked the 


H. C, McNeile ("Sapper") 


Suddenly the flame turned to a smoky orange colour. For a moment or two it spluttered ; 

then it went out altogether," 
fexfbyGoOSl Original from 



The Green Death 

" Yes — this morning," returned the other. 
" Haven't you ? " 

And the officer was still staring thought- 
fully down the drive long after the car had 
disappeared round a bend. This confounded 
soldier seemed so very positive, and Grayson, 
jvho was no fool, had been compelled to 
admit to himself that there were several 
strange features about the case. The in- 
scription on the wall he had dismissed as 
childish ; from inquiries made in the neigh- 
bourhood, Sir Robert Deerings predecessor 
had obviously been a most peculiar specimen. 
Not quite all there, if reports were to be 
believed. To return to the case, however, a 
complete alibi had been proved by every 
single member of the household, save one 
kitchen-maid, Mr. Trayne, and — Bill Braba- 
zon. The kitchen-maid and Mr. Trayne 
could be dismissed — the former for obvious 
reasons, the latter owing to the impossibility 
of having done the deed in the time between 
leaving the drawing-room and striving in the 
billiard-room with the news. And that left 
— Bill Brabazon. Every single line of thought 
led ultimately to — Bill Brabazon. Motive, 
opportunity, capability from a physical point 
of view — all pointed to him. A further ex- 
haustive search that morning of the flower- 
bed outside the window had revealed no trace 
of any footprint ; it was impossible that the 
murderer should have entered by the window. 
Therefore — he shrugged his shoulders. The 
house-party again — and Bill Brabazon. Blind 
with fury, as he admitted himself, he had 
first knocked the dead man down and then 
strangled him, turning out the light lest any- 
one should see. Then, taking off the rope, 
hie had left him, almost, but not quite, dead 
on the floor. In a last despairing gasp for 
air, Denton had staggered to the window and 
collapsed — still not quite dead. Finally, he 
had made one more convulsive effort, floun- 
dered on to the flower-bed, and had there 

Such was the scene as Inspector Grayson 
reconstructed it, and yet he was far from 
satisfied. Why strangle ? An un-English 
method of killing a man. Still— facts were 
facts — the man had been strangled. Un- 
English or not, that was the manner in which 
he had met his death ; and since suicide 
could be ruled out, only murder remained. 
If the soldier could prove it was not young 
Brabazon— well and good. Until he did, 
Mr. Grayson preferred to bank on facts which 
were capable of proof. 

The result of the coroner's inquest was a 
foregone conclusion. Death after strangula- 
tion, with a rider to the effect that, had 
prompt assistance been given on the first 
discovery of the body, life might have been 

Bob Seymour, seated beside another lean, 


sun-tanned man, heard the verdict with an 
impassive face. He had given his evidence, 
confining it to the barest statement of fact ; 
he had advanced no theory ; he had not 
attempted to dispute Inspector Grayson's 
deductions. Once he had caught Ruth's 
eyes fixed on him beseechingly, and he had 
given her a reassuring smile. And she — 
because she trusted him — knew that all was 
well ; knew that the net which seemed to 
be closing so grimly round her brother would 
not be fastened. But why — why didn't he 
tell them now how it was done ? That's 
what she couldn't understand. 

And then, when it was all over, Bob and 
his friend had disappeared in the car again. 

" There's no doubt about it. Bob," said 
Strangways. " What a diabolical old black- 
guard the man must have been." 

" I agree," answered Seymour, grimly. 
" One wishes one could get at him now. As 
it is, the most we can do is to convince our 
mutton-headed friend Grayson. I owe the 
gentleman one for that rider to the verdict." 

The car stopped first at a chemist's, and 
the two men entered the shop. It was an 
unusual request they made — cylinders of 
oxygen are generally required only for sick 
rooms. But after a certain amount of argu- 
ment, the chemist produced one, and they 
placed it in the back of the car. Their next 
errand was even stranger, and consisted of 
the purchase of a rabbit. Finally, a visit to 
an ironmonger produced a rose such as is 
used on the end of a hosepipe for watenng. 

Then, their purchases complete, they 
returned to the house, stopping at the police- 
station on the way. Grayson came out to 
see them, a tolerant smile on his face. Yes, 
he would be pleased to come up that evening 
after dinner. 

" Do you want to introduce me to the 
murderer, Major ? " he asked, maliciously. 

" Something of the sort, Inspector," said 
Seymour. " Studied that encyclopaedia 
yet ? " 

" I've been too busy on other matters — a 
little more important," answered the other, 

" Good," cried Seymour, genially. " By 
the way, when you want to blow out a lamp 
what is the first thing you do ? " 

" Turn down the wick," said Grayson. 

" Wise man. # I wonder why the murderer 

And for the second time that day, Inspector 
Grayson was left staring thoughtfully at a 
retreating motor-car. 

It was not till after dinner that Bob 
Seymour reverted to the matter which was 
obsessing everyone's mind. Most of the 
house-party had left ; only Mr. Trayne and 
Ruth and her brother remained. And even 
the Celebrated Actor had been comparatively 


H. C. McNeile ("Sapper") 


silent throughout the meal, while Bill had 
remained sunk in profound gloom. Every- 
thing at the inquest had pointed to him as 
the culprit ; every ring at the bell and he 
had imagined someone arriving with a 
warrant for his arrest. And Bob had said 
nothing to clear him — not a word, in spite 
of his apparent confidence last night. Only 
Ruth still seemed certain that he would do 
something ; but what could he do, exploded 
the boy miserably, when she tried to cheer 
him up. The evidence on the face of it was 

41 About time our friend arrived, Gilbert." 
Bob Seymour glanced at his watch, and at 
that moment there came a ring at the bell. 
" Who's that ? " said Bill, nervously. 
** The egregious Grayson, old boy," said 
Bob. " Th« experiment is about to begin." 

" You mean " cried Ruth, breathlessly. 

" I mean that Sir Gilbert has kindly con- 
sented to take the place of Denton last 
night," said Bob, cheerfully. " He'll have 
one or two little props to help him, and I 
shall be stage-manager." 

" But why have you put it off so long ? " 
cried Bob, as the inspector came into the 

" * When 'tis day. All serene/ " quoted 

Bob. " Good evening, Mr. Grayson. Now 

that we are all here, we might as well begin." 

" Just as well," agreed the inspector, 

shortly. " What do we begin with ? " 

" First of all a visit to the smoking-room," 
answered Seymour. " Then, except for Sir 
Gilbert Strangways, we shall all go outside 
into the garden." 

In silence they followed him to the scene 
of the tragedy. 

" I trust you will exonerate me from any 
charge of being theatrical," he began, closing 
the door. "But in this particular case the 
cause of Mr. Denton's death is so extra- 
ordinary that only an actual reconstruction 
of what happened would convince such a 
pronounced sceptic as the inspector. Facts 
are facts, aren't they, Mr. Grayson ? " 

The inspector grunted non-committally. 
" What's that on the floor ? " he demanded. 
" A cylinder of oxygen, and a rabbit in a 
cage," explained Seymour, pleasantly. " Now 
first to rearrange the room. The lamp was 
on this table — very possibly placed there by 
the dead man to get a better view of the 
inscription under the window. Otherwise, 
nothing needs moving ; so that we may 
proceed to what happened. 

" First, Inspector, Mr. Brabazon entered 
the room, and, 'as he has already described, 
he and Mr. Denton came to blows, with the 
result that he laid Denton out. Then Mr. 
Brabazon left the room, as I propose we 
shall do shortly. And, after a while, Mr. 
Denton came to his senses again, and went 
Vol. u -ia 

to the window for air, just as Sir Gilbert 
has done at the present moment." 

" You can't prove it," snapped Grayson. 

" True," murmured Seymour. " Just 
logical surmise — so far ; from now onwards — 
irrefutable proof. The murderer is admirably 
trained, I assure you. Are you ready, 
Gilbert ? " 

" Quite," said Strangways, bending down 
and picking up the rabbit-cage, which he 
placed on the table by the lamp. 

" Perhaps, Inspector, you would like to 
examine the rabbit ? " remarked Seymour. 
" No ! Well, if not, I would just ask you to 
notice Sir Gilbert's other preparations. A 
clip on his nose ; the tube from the oxygen 
cylinder in his mouth." 

" I don't understand all this, Major 
Seymour," cried Grayson, testily. " What's 
the rabbit for, and all this other tommy- 
rot ? " 

" I thought I'd explained to you that Sir 
Gilbert is taking the place of the murdered 
man last night: The tommy-rot is to prevent 
him sharing the same fate." 

■' Good God ! " The inspector turned a 
little pale. 

" Shall we adjourn to the garden ? " con- 
tinued Seymour, imperturbably. He led the 
way from the room. " I think we'll stand 
facing the window, so that we can see every- 
thing. Of course, I can't guarantee that the 
performance will be exactly the same ; but 
it will be near enough, I think. Nor can I 
guarantee exactly when it will start." As 
he spoke they reached a point facing the 
window. The lamp was burning brightly in 
the room, outlining Sir Gilbert's figure as 
he stood facing them, and with a little 
shudder Ruth clutched her brother's arm. 

' Even so did Denton stand last night." 
Seymour's even voice came out of the dark- 
ness. " You see his shadow on the grass, 
and the shadow of the sash ; just as Mr. 
Brabazon saw the shadow last night. 

Silence settled on the group ; even the 
phlegmatic inspector seemed impressed. And 
then suddenly, when the tension was becoming 
almost unbearable, Sir Gilbert's voice came 
from the window. 

" It's coming, Bob." 

They saw him adjust his nose-clip and 
turn on the oxygen ; then he stood up as 
before, motionless, in the window. 

" Watch carefully, Inspector," said Sey- 
mour. " Do you see those dark, thin, 
sinuous feelers coming down outside the 
window ? Like strands of rope. They're 
curling in underneath the sash towards Sir 
Gilbert's head. The lamp — look at the 
lamp — watch the colour of the flame. 
Orange — where before it was yellow. Look 
— it's smoking ; thick black smoke ; and 



The Green Death 

by Google 

Original from 


H. C. McNeile ("Sapper") 


*They saw him adjust his rose- 
clip and turn on the oxygen ; 
then he stood up as before, 
motionless, in the window." 

the room is turning green. Do you see ? 
Now the lamp again. It's going out — even 
as it went out last night, And, by this time 
last night, Inspector, Denton, I think, was 
dead ; even as the rabbit on the table is dead 
now. Now watch Sir Gilbert's shirt front." 

"Great heavens! 1 ' shouted Sir Robert, 
11 It's going up.'* 

" Precisely," said Bob. " At the present 
moment he is being lifted off his legs— as 
Denton was last night ; and if at this period 
Denton was not already dead, he could not 
have lasted long. He would have been 

M Oh, Bill, it's awful ! " cried Ruth, 

Digitized by GOOQK 

,r Then came the rain/* continued Sey- 
mour. " I have here the hosepipe fitted with 
a rose/' He dragged it nearer the window, 
and let it play on the side of the house as 
far up as the water would reach. Almost at 
once the body of Sir Gilbert ceased rising ; 
it paused as if hesitating ; then p with a little 
thud, fell downwards half in half out of the 
window, head and arms sprawling in the 

" And thus we found Mr, Denton last 
night, when it was still raining/' said Sey- 
mour, (i All right, Gilbert ? JJ 

" All right, hid boy! " came from the other, 

" But if he's all right," said the inspector, 
wondering! y, " why wasn't the other ? " 



The Green Death 

" Because Sir Gilbert, being in full pos- 
session of his senses when the hanging 
process started, used his hands to prevent 
strangulation. To continue — the rain ceased. 
We were out of the room waiting for your 
arrival, Mr. Grayson, and while we were out 
—Look! look!" 

Before their eyes the top part of Sir 
Gilbert's body was being raised till once 
again he stood straight up. Then steadily 
he was drawn upwards till his knees came 
about the level of the sill, when, with a 
sudden lurch, the whole body swung out 
and then back again, while the calves of his 
legs drummed against the outside of the 
house. " Do you remember the marks on 
the trousers, Inspector ? And then the rain 
came again." Seymour turned on the hose. 
Once more the body paused, hesitated, and 
then crashed downwards into the flower-bed, 

" All right, Gilbert ? " 

" All right," answered the other. " Merely 
uncomfortably wet." He rose and came 
towards them. 

" And now, Inspector," murmured Sey- 
mour, mildly, " you know exactly how Mr. 
Denton was killed." 

" But, good Lord ! gentlemen," said 
Grayson, feeblv, " what was it that killed 
him ? " 

•' A species of liana," said Sir Gilbert. 
" In my experience absolutely unique in 
strength and size — though I have heard 
stories from the Upper Amazon of similar 
cases. It's known amongst the natives as 
the Green Death." 

" But is it an animal ? " cried Grayson. 

" You've asked me a question, Inspector," 
said Sir Gilbert, " that I find it very difficult 
to answer. To look at — it's a plant — a 
climbing plant, with long, powerful tendrils. 
But in habits — it's carnivorous, like the 
insect-eating variety in England. It's found 
in the tropical undergrowth, and is inciden- 
tally worshipped by some of the tribes. They 
give it human sacrifices, so the story goes. 
And now I can quite believe it." 

" But, hang it, sir," exploded the inspec- 
tor, " we aren't on the Upper Amazon. Do 
you mean to say that one of these things is 
here ? " 

" Of course. Didn't you see it ? It's 
spread from the wall to the branches of that 
old oak." 

" If you remember, Inspector, I pointed 
it out to you this morning," murmured Sey- 
mour, mildly. " But you were so engrossed 
with the flower-bed." 

" But why did the lamp go out ? " asked 
Ruth, breathlessly. 

" For the same reason that the rabbit 
died," said Bob. " For the same reason 
that the match went out last night, and gave 
me the third clue. From each of the tendrils 

a green cloud is ejected, the principal in- 
gredient of which is carbon dioxide — which 
is a gas that suffocates. The plant holds the 
victim, and they suffocate him. Hence the 
oxygen and the nose-clip ; otherwise Sir 
Gilbert would have been killed to-night. By 
the way, would you like to see the rabbit, 
Inspector ? " 

" I'll take your word for it, sir," he 
grunted, shortly. " Only, why the devil 
you didn't tell me this last night I can't 

" For the very simple reason that you 
wouldn't have believed me," returned Bob. 
"I'd have shown you — only the rain had 
come on again. And you must admit I 
advised you to get an encyclopaedia." 

" T)OB, I don't understand how you did 

Yj it," cried Ruth. 

It was after breakfast the following 
morning, and the sound of axes came through 
the open window from the men who were 
already at work cutting down the old oak 

The other laughed. " Points of detail," 
he said, quietly. " At first, before the police 
arrived, I thought it. possible that Bill had 
been responsible for his death. I thought 
he'd hit him so hard that the man's heart 
had given out, and that in a final spasm he'd 
staggered to the window and died. It struck 
me as just conceivable that Denton had him- 
self blown out the lamp, thinking it made it 
hotter. But why not turn it out ? And 
would he have had time if he was at his last 
gasp ? Then the police came, and the body 
had moved. I knew the man was dead when 
he was lying over the sill, though I hadn't 
seen the mark round his neck. I therefore 
knew that some agency had moved the body. 
That agency must have been the murderer — 
anyone else would have mentioned the fact. 
Therefore it couldn't have been Bill, because 
he was in the billiard-room the whole time, 
and I'd locked the door of the smoking-room. 
Then I saw the mark round his neck — 
strangled. But you can't strangle a power- 
ful man without a desperate struggle. And 
why should the strangler return after the 
deed was committed ? Also there were no 
footmarks on the flower-bed. Then I noticed 
the grey dust on his trousers just below the 
knee, and underneath the window outside, 
kept dry by the sill, which stuck out, was 
ivy — dusty and cobwebby as ivy always is. 
How had his legs touched it ? If they had — 
and there was nowhere else the dirt could 
have come from — he must have been lifted 
off the ground. Strangulation, certainly, of 
a type — hung. The dirt had not been there 
when we first found the body lying over 
the sill. And if he d been hung — who did 


H. C. McNeile ("Sapper") 


it ? And why hang a dead man ? What 
had happened between the time Bill left the 
room and the police found the body ? A 
heavy shower of rain, during which we found 
the body ; then clear again, while we were 
out of the room ; then another shower, when 
the police found the body. And then I 
thought of the rhyme : — 

When 'tis hot, shun this spot ; 
When 'tis rain, come again. 

Could it be possible that there was some 
diabolical agent at work, who stopped, or 
was frustrated, by rain ? It was then I saw 
the green cloud itself over the constable's 
head — the cloud which extinguished my 

" Incredible as it seemed, I saw at once 
that it was the only solution which fitted 
every tiling — the marks on the back of his 
trousers below the knee — everything. He'd 
been hung, and the thing that had hanged 
him had blown out the lamp— or extinguished 
it is a more accurate way of expressing it — 
even as it extinguished my match. The 
smell — I 'd been searching my memory for that 
smell the whole evening, and it came to me 
when I saw that green gas — it's some rank 
discharge from the plant, mixed with the 
carbon dioxide. And I last saw it, and smelt 
it, on the Upper Amazon ten years ago. My 
native bearers dragged me away in their 
terror. There was a small animal, I re- 
member, hanging from a red tendril, quite 
dead. The tendril was round its neck, 
exuding little puffs of green vapour. So I 
got Gilbert to make sure. That's all." 

" But what a wicked old man he must 

have been who planted it 1 " cried the girl, 

" A distorted sense of humour, as I told 
our host," said Bob, briefly, starting to fill 
his pipe. 

" Bill and I can never thank you enough, 
Major Seymour," said the girl, slowly, after a 

long silence. " If it hadn't been for you " 

She gave a little shudder, and stared out of 
the window. 

" Some advantages in wandering," he 
answered, lightly. " One does pick up odd 
facts. Suppose I'll have to push off again 

" Why ? " she demanded. 

" Oh, I dunno. Can't sit in England 
doing nothing." 

" Going alone ? " she asked, softly. 

" Do you think anybody would be mug 
enough to accompany me ? " he inquired, 
with an attempt at a grin. Dear heavens ! 
If only he wasn't a cripple 

" I don't know, I'm sure," she murmured. 
11 You'd want your three points of detail to 
make it a certainty, wouldn't you ? We only 
reached the coincidence stage two nights ago." 

" What do you mean, Ruth ? " he whis- 
pered, staring at her. 

" That for a clever man — you're an utter 
fool. With a woman one is a certainty. 
However, if you'll close your eyes, I'll pander 
to your feeble intellect. Tight, please." 

And it was as the tree fell with a rending 
crash outside that Ruth Brabazon found 
that, at any rate as far as his arms were con- 
cerned, Bob Seymour was no cripple. And 
Bob — well, a kiss is pretty conclusive. At 
least, some kisses are. 



Two coins : and every school Ijoy knows 
That two of these make one of those. 

1. What most desire the solver needs, 
And nothing else so well succeeds. 

2. In tiny fraction of a mile 
The Scot will recognize an isle. 

3. Outspoken, plainly stated, clear. 
If head an>l tail as well were here. 

4. Robert was known to many men. 
>Tohn comes at times within our ken. 

6. From light before remove the head, 
Or find a snaky fish instead. 

6. Dignity, greatness, excellence— 
With half of which we may dispense. 

7. Five shillings, 'tis the very thing, 
Possessed by mountain and by king. 

8. To find the place you need, methink?, 
A curious method : mix your drinks. 


Ansirers to Acrostic No. 86 should be addressed to the 
Acrostic Editor, The Strand Magazine, Southampton 
Street, Strand, London, W.C.2, and must arrive not later 
than by the first post on September lOtf. 

Two answers may be c etit fr- every light. 


TO No. 


1. H 






3. L 



4. I 



5. D 



6. A 



7. Y 



by Google 

" Well " is accepted for the second light of No. 83, 
alluding to the town of Bonn. 

Original from 



CT Study in 


WHY does a strawberry leaf stand 
for the highest order in the British 
Peerage ? The strictly correct 
answer is that it doesn't. It is 
true that the coronet of a Duke bears eight 
golden leaves, while that of a Marquess has 
only four, and the lower ranks of the nobility 
have no share at all in the honorific Vallom- 

But the leaves are not strawberry leaves 
at all. They are merely heraldic conven- 
tions, and have nothing whatever to do with 
the market garden. The common man of 
long ago, however, fancied he saw a resenr- 
bkuu<\ and the ducal order is no%v in- 
separably associated with the fruit of which 
the pious old epicure declared, " God might 
have made a better berry, but He never did/ 1 
Whether we call a Duke a super-Marquess, 
or (less politely} describe a Marquess as an 
underdone Duke, the fact remains that there 
is more in common between these dignities 
than between any other. In the matter of 
golden leaves the Marquess, as we have seen, 
is only half a Duke ; in other matters he is 
more generously treated* For example, the 

Digiliz&d by VjOCK? lc 

Duke has four doublings of ermine on the 
scarlet mantle in which he goes on State 
occasions to Parliament. The Marquess 
displays three and a half — an arrangement 
which, if unsymmetrical, has the advantage 
of making it perfectly clear that he is many 
pegs above the mere Baron, who can wear 
but two* The Duke and the Marquess, in 
short, have much in common, as is natural , 
seeing that the dignities were introduced 
into this country much about the same time. 
Still, the Duke has a lonely grandeur of his 
own. He is the only Peer who cannot be 
called informally " Lord So-and-So," and, 
therefore, presents a slight social difficulty 
to those who only occasionally penetrate to 
the regions in which Dukes are found* He 
has a further distinction of great importance* 
To the Sovereign {in his official capacity) 
the Duke is "Our Right Trusty and Our 
Right Entirely Beloved Cousin," and he is 
also styled " on certain occasions" (birth* 
days, perhaps, and Bank Holidays) " Most 
High, Potent, and Noble Prince/ 1 

ALL this leaves no possible doubt as to 
the importance, in one way, of being 
a Duke. Yet, on the whole, Dukes 
are not quite what they were. Even ten 
years have made some difference. A de- 
cade ago they were assailed by Mr. Lloyd 
George as feudal oppressors, and were 
defended by Lord Rosebery as, on the 
whole, a *' poor but honest class/' To-day 
nobody seems concerned either to attack or 
protect. When Mr. Smillic, of the Miners' 
Federation, tried to inflame the great heart 
of the people with resentment against these 
remnants of oligarchic privilege, the public 
refused to take him seriously. In igog it 
might be induced to believe in the efficient 
wickedness of the Dukes. To-day the bad 
Duke is one with the bad Baronet ; it is 
impossible to raise a thrill with him. 

The truth is that politically, and even 
socially — apart from the few circles where 
heraldic distinction is still a dominating 
factor — the Duke has lost importance* In 
the long run, wealth determines all kinds of 
influence that is not dependent on intellect 
or character. It is not long since the Dukes 
— or at least a good proportion of them — 
were as richly endowed with wealth as with 
dignities. Even in late Victorian times the 
largest commercial incomes could not over- 
shadow the ancestral revenues of great 
nobles like the Dukes of Devonshire and 
Bedford, who united much business capacity 
with their magnificence. It was no simpleton 
who planned and nursed into splendour a 
town like Eastbourne, and Disraeli has left 
caustic comment on the keenness of the 
Duke of Bedford of his day, the richest 
subject of QtiFcn Victoria, Every kind of 



E, T* Raymond 


prestige was thus associated with the ducal 
caste* It had, as a rule, vast wealth, It has 
great political power. It retained in some 
considerable degree that intellectual dis- 
tinction which derived from the great days 
of eighteenth-century aristocracy, It was 
connected with a splendour in housing and 
a taste in connoisseur ship that the new rich 
had yet been unable to emulate. 

One could not help feeling, when one 
compared the English Duke of those days 
with the German Prince or the Italian 
Marquess, a little like the honest snob satirized 
by the Punch of thirty or forty years ago, 
who, in contempt for a beggarly foreign 
nobility, exclaimed, *' Give me a real noble- 
man like the Duke of Westminster, who 
could buy up the whole lot of 'em, sir, and 
looks on me and you as if we was so much 

But what may be called static wealth, 
however great, can no longer compete with 
the vast commercial fortunes which expand 
with the times. South Africa, the Argentine, 
Mexico, Canada, the United States, the great 
towns of the North and Midlands, have 
peopled London with a new race of multi- 
millionaires, for the most part men of 
tolerable education, polished manners, and 



fair taste — men of a very different stamp 
irum the typical parvenu of an earlier 
generation. It is now the magnates of 
finance, manufacture, and commerce, the 
lords of oil, meat, wool, and steel, who 
house the Rembrandts, the Sevres master- 
pieces, the Caxtons and Mazarin Bibles, the 






t'teto, 'Dnilv Sketch.' 

Italian Primitives, and the French Impres- 
sionists, It is they who run the great racing 
stables, provide the great social dis plays p 
pervade the illustrated papers, and even pull 
many of the most important political wires. 

Even twenty years ago it would have 
been possible to point to half-a-dozen 
Dukes exercising in one way or another great 
influence on the affairs of their day ; no 
Cabinet was complete without one ; in 
society it was theirs to bind or loose ; they 
dominated the Turf ; they were sought for 
by directors and review editors ; and at 
party meetings their lightest word was 
listened to with strained attention. To-day 
nearly all the Dukes are political " back- 
woodsmen JP ; hardly one is a dominant 
social figure, and the Ministerial Elvsian 
fields are destitute of the smallest trace 
of strawberry leaves. There was probably 
never a richer House of Lords or House of 
Commons than that of to-day . There never 
was a less aristocratic Cabinet, and Mr. 
Winston Churchill, as the grandson of a 
Duke, is the nearest approach to that august 
order in the Government of Mr. Lloyd George* 








Phvtu. SUM Jt Fr*. 

IN such circumstances it is only natural 
that the Dukes who can still be classed as 
political should be affected with some 
degree of bias against the new order. Thus 
the Duke of Marlborough quite recently ex- 
pressed the opinion that the leadership of 
the Conservative Party was " in the gutter. " 
The Duke of Somerset angrily protests 
from time to time against the influence 0! 
Mr. Lloyd George. The Duke of North- 
umberland thinks nothing will ever be right 
until Conservatism becomes again quite 

The future is with the young, and the 
Duke of Northumberland, the youngest 
of our political Dukes, is also the most 
promising. He reached his rank by the 
unhappy accident of t he death of his talented 
brother, that Earl Percy who was some 
years ago regarded as one of the rising figures 
on the Unionist benches of the House of 
Commons, He got as far as the Un tier- 
Secretaryship for Foreign Affairs, and would 
have gone further had he not tended to 
make politics only one of his hobbies ; 
another was travelling in the most arid 
and heated parts of the world. The Nile 
at any time of the year is hot enough for 
most people ; the Nile in August as an 
inferno. But Earl Percy was never happier 
than when grilling on the deck of an Egyptian 

river-boat in the height of summer, and 
it is even said that he invented shelters 
of corrugated iron in order that he might 
keep himself comfortably warm. 

The present Duke is less casual, and of 
a graver character. His determination as 
well as his physical form is attested by the 
fact that he once walked in the snow from 
Montreal to Quebec (one hundred and eleven 
miles) for a wager. He takes life very 
seriously, and both in Society, where he has 
a reputation for shyness, and in the House 
of Lords , where his " reactionary " speeches 
make him the idol of the " stern and unbend- 
ing Tories/ 1 he is a solemn figure. With 
the possible exception of Mr, Harold Cox, 
the Duke is the most perfect survival of 
the Victorian individualist. He holds in 
the extremest form the doctrine that a man 
should do what he likes with his own, and 
was perfectly unabashed when Mr. Smillie, 
during the Coal Commission, quoted the 
Pentateuch, the New Testament, and a 
barrow-load of Blue Books in impeachment 
of that attitude. 

The Percys — or rather the Smithson 
Percys, for little of the blood of Hotspur 
circulates in the ducal blood of to-day — 
have mostly been what country people 
call "a little near." The present Duke's 
father used to sell even the sea* water from 






E. T. Raymond 


his foreshore, and Horace Walpole records 
that the Duke of his day was noted for all 
sorts of stratagems " to raise his rents a 
little." But though tenacious of the rights 
of property, the present Duke has a high 
conception of its duties* He recalls in 
a good many ways the earnest young aris- 
tocrats who pervaded the novels of Disraeli 
and talked " Young Englandism." In some 
circles he is looked on as the certain leader 
of Conservatism, whose time will come when 
the Coalition's has gone. In some respects 
his qualifications cannot be denied. He 
is sure of himself and of his opinions ; 
perfectly honest and fearless ; a good, if 
somewhat formal, speaker and writer (he 
was one of the official eye-witnesses during 
the war) ; and a man with some power of 
inspiring confidence and loyalty. Thus the 
day may quite possibly come when his 
long, serious, slightly equine face (a little 
recalling that of the conventional chess- 
board knight) will be as well known as that 
of Mr. Lloyd George. 

NO such high destiny can be anticipated 
for the Duke of Somerset, who is of the 
same type, but conceived in a spirit 
of comedy* Some politicians may take too 
seriously the head of the House of Percy ; 
nobody takes at all seriously the head of the 
House of St + Maur, or, as it used to be written, 
Seymour. Algernon, fifteenth Duke of the 



Photo. Downey, 

J Google 


Photo. Topical Prat. 

line founded by the Protector Somerset, is 
a fine figure of a man, of Herculean build, 
enormous strength, handsome presence, and 
hasty temper. He is one of our poorer 
Dukes, and stories are told of his being 
bookless and pictureless when he succeeded 
to the title. AH poverty, however is 
relative, and it would be a mistake to 
conceive the Duke as boiling his own kettle 
or blacking his own boots, whether at 
Maiden Bradley or in Grosvenor Square. 
The elderly Duke who is compelled to take 
in paying guests, the youthful Duke who 
simply must marry an American in order 
literally to live — these are, after all, com- 
moner figures in fiction than in life, 

The only trouble with the Duke of Somerset 
is that the possessions of the family are 
just a little inadequate to his pride, The 
haughtiness of the Seymours has long ago 
passed into a proverb, One of the family, 
in the eighteenth century, was known as 
" the proud Duke." Another, representing 
the elder but non-ducal branch of the race, 
was greeted by William III. with the remark, 
*' I believe, Sir Edward, you belong to His 
Grace of Somerset's family/' "Your Highness 




is wrongly informed/' was the reply, " The 
Duke of Somerset belongs to my family." 
The present Duke is the incarnation of all 
kinds of pride— ■pride of race t station, 
ancestry , and person. 

One of his greatest and most legitimate 
sources of pride is his charming Duchess, 
who shares all his views and many of his 
amusements. The pair hunted big game 
in Canada together, they appear side by 
side on Primrose League platforms, and often 
their signatures occur in the same issue of 
the Times under letters expressed with the 
same energy of denunciation. Together they 
have denounced most things in the way 
of modern legislation, and the Duchess, 
at the time of the Insurance Act, played 
with the idea of a " Won't-Stick-Stamps 

Until 1914, Mr* Lloyd George oppressed 
the ducal imagination as a kind of financial 
Attila, or Hammer of God. Then the war 
came as a reconciler, but with the rigours 
of peace the tender plant of confidence 
has been nipped in the bud, and the Prime 
Minister again represents " encroachments/' 
" spoliation/' " confiscatory legislation/* and 
a general tendency to Bolshevism and dis- 
hevelled morals. Such depth of conviction 
would doubtless lead far if the Duke were 
a skilful politician, but he has no notion of 
tactics, and, though a considerable character, 
cannot be called a serious force even in the 
wilder gardens of Conservatism, 

ANOTHER physically gigantic Duke is 
His Grace of 
R u tland, 
who stands six 
feet three inches 
in his boots, 
and, with his 
monocle and short 
white beard, is one 
of the most pic- 
turesque figures of 
the Peerage. In 
his House of Com- 
mons days he was 
I^ord Salisbury's 
Private Secretary, 
and his hand- 
somely swarthy 
face and ex- 
quisitely tailored 
figure made him 
the very ideal of 
the aristocratic 
hero of a Bow 
Bells novelette. 
Being a Manners, 
it is unnecessary 
to add that he 
is a Conservative, 

Was it not a Lord John Manners who pro- 
duced the immortal lines : 

Let laws and learning, arts and commerce die, 
But leave us still our old nobility ? 

The Duke of Rutland, however, is not a 
partisan in quite the same sense as his 
cousins of Northumberland and Somerset. 
His chief political interests are agriculture 
and Army affairs ; he is intensely concerned 
in keeping men on the soil and getting them 
into the Territorials. On the whole, while 
steadily speaking and voting Conservative, 
he adopts the persuasive rather than the 
denunciatory tone. On one occasion at a 
Avar meeting he magnificently approved of 
Mr. Ben Tillett. Like other Dukes, he has 
recently sold much of his land, + ' Grievous 
necessity/' the effect of " crushing taxation/' 
has " forced him to part with many acres 
very dear to him/ J The Duke is a devoted 
friend of wild birds, a great angler, and an 
editor of books on country life. Not the 
least of his distinctions is that of being the 
father of the famous beauty till lately known 
as Lady Diana Manners, 



Photo, tlii.rti A Ft§ 

*HE Duke of Bedford also takes a great 
interest in birds and beasts. Apart 
from " preserving " extensively, he 
keeps in his ancestral park yaks, buffaloes, 
Uamns, and other out-of-the-way animal*, 
The Duke's other great concerns are land 
and the Army* The once vast Bedford 
estates are now, however, sadly dimin- 
ished. In London the great block of 

Covent Garden 
has been sold ; 
in the country the 
Puke lias divested 
himself of many 
thousands of acres 
in Devonshire, 
Bedfordshire, and 
Oa m h r i d ges h i re. 
1 he Duke r indeed p 
was almost the 
first of the great 
Peer landowners to 
set the fashion, so 
generally followed, 
of "' getting out of 
land'*; he foresaw 
that the day of the 
great estate was 

The R u 5 s e 1 1 s 
have always been 
a shrewd and care- 
ful race. When 
William III. of- 
fered a dukedom 
to the Earl of his 
day it was at first - 


E. T. Raymond 

declined. ' ' For, J ' the Earl 
argued, H if I become a 
Duke, all my sons will be 
Lords, And what can you 
do with a Lord ? As an 
Earl I can put my younger 
sons in a profession, in 
stock - jobbing, or even 
in trade. But there is 
something ridiculous, and 
almost indecent, in the 
spectacle of a Lord get- 
ting his living," So the 
King, being determined 
that so great a family 
should be bound irre- 
vocably to his cause, had 
literally to force on the 
Russells an honour which 
generally falls only to 
genius or intrigue. 

Thanks to this abid- 
ingly businesslike disposi- 
tion, Wobnrn has always 
been a model estate. It 
is said that you will be 
eyed askance if you 
throw a spent match on 
the ground* Mr, Lloyd 
George began his land 
campaign in this neigh- 
bourhood, and came into 
speedy collision with the 
Duke. M I spend the 
money I make from my 
London property/' said 
the latter, ' in making 
my country tenants com- 
fortable, but when I am abused as a grasping 
country landlord I don't feel much disposed 
to continue with the amusement. 1 ' 

The Bedford Estate office has had the 
unique distinction of providing the country 
with a Minister and the Peerage with a 
Baron. During the Budget fight Mr, Lloyd 
George had many a sparring match with the 
Duke's agent, Mr, Rowland Prothero, a dis- 
tinguished scholar and literary man, and a 
politician of some note. Years later, when 
looking for someone to fill the Board of 
Agriculture, he exclaimed : IH What about the 
man I called the Duke of Bedford's butler, 
or something of that sort ? That's the man 
I want.' 1 Thus it came about that Lord 
Ernie was put in the position of serving 
ploughing-up notices on his own employer. 
Lord Ernie may have seen the humour of it, 
the Duke did not ; the Russells have never 
been noted for a sense of fun. 

As an old officer the Duke was one of the 
most pertinacious critics of Lord Haldane, 
and one of the most consistent prophets of 
war with Germany ; and at one time he 
was thought a 


Office, With much solid 
ability, however, he pos- 
sesses little of the talent 
for politics, which has only 
occasionally broken out in 
his family, and his careful 
speeches and letters are 
rather soporific in ten- 




HE sale of Devonshire 
House in Piccadilly, 
the destruction of 
the great Chats worth con- 
servatory, the disposal of 
famous Caxtons to an 
American collector — these 
are signs that even the 
great House of Cavendish 
cannot defy altogether the 
influences at war with the 
wealth that does not re- 
produce itself quickly* 
The Cavendishes are a 
distinctively Whig House, 
They sprang from ob- 
scurity about the time of 
the Reformation ; they 
i^ached ducal rank at 
the Revolution, and they 
waxed greater and greater 
as the Whig ascendancy 
consolidated. Even in 
becoming Conservatives, 
the Cavendishes have 
hardly ceased to be 
Whigs, " Cavendo tu- 
tus/ 1 the punning family 
motto, may be roughly translated as * Go 
slow, and you will be safe " ; and the 
Cavendishes are very English in their 
unad venturous common sense. As Johnson 
remarked of the Duke of Devonshire of 
his day, they are " dependable " men. 
Lacking all the showy qualities, destitute of 
imagination, brilliance, vision, and eloquence, 
they are yet quite liable to get hold of the 
right end of any political stick. The present 
Duke follows the tradition of safety first. 
He is a " safe" Governor- General of Canada, 
jnst as he was a " safe '* Civil Lord of the 
Admiralty, simply because he knows what he 
wants and never says anything he is not sure 
about. The last Duke was given to yawning 
in public, and once confessed that at an 
important Cabinet meeting lie was "a little 
inattentive/' by which he meant, in plain 
English, fast asleep. If the present Duke 
does not yawn he often looks as if he wanted 
to. His attitude to life, and especially public 
life, is that of one profoundly bored. But 
he can act with decision on occasion ; the 

destruction of the Chats worth conservatory 
possible " for the War is a case in point. Condemned in the in- 




terests of coal economy, it would have taken 
years to pull down this private Crystal 
Palace. The Duke, therefore, had it blown 

OF a much more mercurial character is 
the Duke of Westminster, the first 
Duke to win the D.S.O. ; it was earned 
by a very dashing affair with armoured 
cars in the Egyptian desert. Much of 
the feverishness of modernity is concen- 
trated in the present head of the House of 
Grosvenor. He skips from town to country, 
from England to the Continent, from one 
occupation to another, with a vivacity that 
leaves the Society papers breathless. He 
is an all-round sportsman, good equally at 
fox-hunting, deer-stalking, rabbit-shooting, 
and fishing. He has travelled in many 
parts of the world, both as tourist and soldier, 
and one of his solaces is patronage of the 
lighter stage. At one time he seemed pos- 
sessed of serious ambitions in politics. That 
was in the days of the " Confederates " 
and " Die Hards," and the Duke was 
understood to be ready to invite to dinner 
anybody who, in return for that honour, 
contributed a thousand pounds to the party 
war-chest. But the war came to put an 
end to such enthusiasms, and peac€ has 
not revived them. Hugh Richard Arthur 
Grosvenor, second Duke and eleventh 
Baronet, is a well-grown man, and has no 
appearance of being crushed with his digni- 
ties. Indeed, he gives a chance observer 
the impression that he really does not care 
much about being a grandee, or having 
such an enormous amount of house-room 
as was his at Grosvenor House and Eaton 
Hall. He prefers life to stately living. 

THE Duke of Marlborough distinguished 
himself during the war, first by acting 
as King's Messenger between Whitehall 
and G.H.Q., and secondly by ploughing up 
part of Blenheim Park and growing cabbages 
in the ornamental gardens. His practice 
thus squared with his precept as an official 
of the Board of Agriculture. Like other 
Dukes he has sold much of his land ; alone 
among Dukes, he saved the auctioneer's 
fees by appearing himself in the rostrum. 
His tenants like him, and there are plenty 
of them to do so, since he has over one 
thousand allotment keepers and small- 
holders. His chief enthusiasm is the land 
question, and it was perhaps the resentment 
of an unappreciated enthusiast which made 
him warn Mr. Lloyd George a few years 
ago that he would never again be invited 
to Blenheim. The Duke is rather given to 
impressive declarations of this sort, and 
only a few months ago drew a horrifying 
picture of England without an aristocracy 

Digitized byW 

•* to dispense hospitality to all classes." 
None of the Churchills are deficient in brains, 
and the Duke often gives an impression that 
he is really coming out, and then goes in 
again. Perhaps he is overshadowed by the 
memory of his warlike and famous ancestor 
and by the present fact of his still more 
famous cousin. 

WHEN we compare this list with any 
which could have been compiled 
twenty, thirty, or forty years ago, 
we shall be conscious of what was above 
suggested — a certain decline in ducal 
stocks. But in their own territories it is 
a different story ; the Dukes (to say 
nothing of the Marquesses, Earls, Vis- 
counts, and older Barons) retain their 
prestige in the Shires. If one wants a 
glimpse of the old thing he should make a 
trip to the Beaufort country. The present 
Duke of Beaufort might easily walk down 
Piccadilly without being recognized, but 
anywhere within twenty miles of Badminton 
rustic hands go up to rustic caps to hail 
his stalwart figure. . The Fitzroy Somersets 
are of the blood royal of England. They 
descend directly, without a gap or a blot on 
their pedigree, from John of Gaunt, and they 
long held in the West of England a state 
almost regal. They have produced one or 
two soldiers and one considerable thinker — 
that Marquess of Worcester who invented the 
first steam-engine in the reign of Charles 
II. But the main industry of the family 
is sport. 

The memory is still cherished of the days 
when the last Duke, surrounded by a family 
of gigantic sons, did the honours of Bad- 
minton with a princely disregard of expense. 
He was a man of all worlds, and many capi- 
tals ; his successor is more the truly rural 
grandee. The present Duke and his Duchess 
care little about London Society. The 
Duke's chief trouble is to keep down his 
weight and to keep up his pack — the pack 
which has been his life's care. He is never 
heard in the House of Lords, but in the 
hunting-field displays an eloquence quite 
his own, though his language is perhaps 
less picturesque than that of an old peer- 
neighbour of his who once swore at a great 
newspaper proprietor as a " damned printer," 
and told a Jewish lord of finance that " if 
everybody had his rights he would bo 
'untin' jackals round Jerusalem on a donkey," 
Even the sporting glory of the Fitzroy 
Somersets is not quite what it was, in these 
days of heavy taxation and dear hay. But 
the Duke of Beaufort lives up to his motto, 
" I scorn to change or to fear," and things 
at Badminton go (so far as is possible) as they 
did in the days when graduated death duties 
were not. 






BRUPTLY the debon- 
nair gentleman in 
dinner-coat stopped . 
His whole de- 
meanour underwent strange, 
swift change. An arc light, 
filtering through the heavy 
foliage that lined the quaint 
old street, had revealed a 
lithe, well - tailored figure 
sauntering gracefully along, 
apparently oblivious to all 
save the silent midnight 
charm of this embowered 
city byway. 

Then suddenly he had 
petrified. The malacca stick 
that had been beating out 
the measures of the latest 
melody softly whistled through a set of 
perfect teeth, stopped in mid-air, half-way 
through a measure. Instantly it suggested 
a weapon of defence. The melody ceased 
sharply. The perfect teeth set off a silent 

It was as though a beribboned Persian 
kitten playing with a ball of yarn had been 
suddenly transformed into a slavering pan- 
ther crouched for a murderous spring upon 
its prey. 

Beside him rose the high entrance of an 
old house with marble doorsteps. As the 
aristocratic senator had built it three genera- 
tions before with loving care, it stood to-day, 
save that moss and ivy all but hid its ancient 
bricks and that countless feet long since 
dead had worn concave its yellowed marbles. 

But the tense figure in dinner-coat was 
peering at no ghost of a dead statesman. 
From the depths of the dark areaway his 
keen ear had caught a muffled rasp of rending 

Without move or breath he listened in 
vain for a repetition of the sound. The 
listless breeze, that for a moment had sought 
to lift the dead weight of midsummer heat, 
sighed its despair in the foliage above him 
and abandoned the effort. A cricket chirped 
a brief note of encouragement, but instantly 
realized its futility. From afar came momen- 



*" IllusmreL led hxj 


by Google 

tarily the incongruous clang 
of a tramcar. Then silence, 
complete and absolute. 

But the shadow against 
the basement wall seemed 
etched more sharply than the 
dim street light warranted. 
Even as the watcher's quick 
mind grasped this detail, the 
silhouette melted through 
the brickwork. Only the 
vague blur of a window 

At that the gentleman re- 
leased his pent-up breath in a 
soft, thoughtful whistle. A 
sardonic smile replaced the 
snarl. Reflectively he stroked 
a smooth-shaven lip. 
Then his momentary alertness vanished. 
Again he was the jaunty, sauntering home- 
comer from late evening festivities. Twirl- 
ing his stick gaily as he moved on, he laughed ; 
a mellow ripple that echoed far down the 
silent street. 

" You're seeing things, old Top ! Better 
quit drinking for a bit ! Wife at the seaside \ 
Midsummer madness ! All that sort of 
thing," he chuckled. 

Now his steps wavered a little, indicative 
of confidential relations with viands contra- 
band in that city. 

" — was the smile that she had for me," 
he sang in a slightly maudlin tenor, resuming 
the melody where he had dropped it when 

Three doors away, where an aged maple 
blanketed a house-front in almost complete 
blackness, he paused and did a curious thing. 
At first thought it seemed further capricious- 
ness on the part of one entertainingly be- 

Six times he slapped boot-sole smartly on 
flagging. Next, from his pocket, he snatched 
a bunch of keys and jingled them. Finally, 
after a pause of an instant, again he stamped 
once on the pavement, this time a little more 

Now became apparent the method in this 
seeming madness. It was a creditable bit 

Original from 



The Host at No, 10 

of off-stage business, a passable acoustic 
imitation of a man mounting the steps of his 
home, unlocking the front door, entering, 
and slamming it ?iter him. It might easily 
deceive anyone listening from a little distance. 

But the manipulator had not moved from 
his tracks. All this time he had kept his 
eye on the marble steps of No. 10, where, 
without doubt, the shadow of a man had 
vanished through the area window. 

Slowly, soundlessly, he deployed back 
towards the marble steps, picking a course 
through the darkest shadows. The Persian 
kitten was again the panther stalking his 
prey. Presently he sidled into the dim 

It was as he had thought. The iron bars 
that had guarded the window had been 
wrenched loose at the bottom. Through 
them he carefully thrust his head and listened. 
At first there was nothing save the mono- 
tonous drip of a loose water-tap somewhere 
in the rear. Then his ear caught the thud 
of apparently unconcerned footsteps leisurely 
mounting a stairway above. If the intruder 
had seen the passer at all, the latter's by-play 
in front of the near-by house had probably 
reassured him, or his watcher if he had one. 

For a moment the man in dinner-coat stood 
irresolute, puzzled annoyance clouding his 
lean, dark face. Once he turned towards 
the breached window as if to follow the man 
he could hear making himself at home within. 
Then he hesitated and turned back. Again 
he stroked his upper lip thoughtfully. " By 
Jove ! " he exclaimed at last, " I'll do some- 
thing original. I'll call in the police. Mid- 
summer madness ! What ? " 

The broken bars he carefully arranged so 
that he could tell on his return if the intruder 
had escaped in his absence. A moment 
more he listened to the leisurely footsteps, 
then, chuckling silently, he turned back down 
the street. 

It was one of many similar and beautiful 
old byways, with mellow ranks of comfort- 
able houses, entrenched behind double files 
of shade-trees. Just now these secluded, 
lightly-policed avenues were a burglars' 

With the coming of the dog days families 
had fled to cool shores. The dollar-earners 
were left to steam in stifling homes with one 
or two servants to mitigate their miseries. 
Hence dwellings were not as a rule shut up 
and put under burglar-alarm protection. 
Silver was not stored. The winter jewellery 
supply often remained in wall-safes. 

Such homes were marked by certain 
gentry willing to relieve of the burden of 
some of his wealth anyone able to work and, 
to the minds of these gentry, fool enough to 
do it. 

Such a home was No. 10. 

by Google 

THE amateur sleuth kept its front in 
sight over his shoulder as he hurried 
towards the corner. There, a moment 
later, he accosted Officer Blaney. 

" Burglar in No. 10 ! One man job, I 
think. Time for you to get help and sur- 
round the place, but hurry. I'll run back 
and keep a lookout. You'll find me in the 
area. It's all right. I've got a revolver." 

" Confound it ! " grumbled Blaney. 
" That's the third on my beat this week. I 
gotta get him this time ! " 

His ordinarily florid face still flushed the 
brighter for the verbal lashing his chief had 
indulged in when he reported for duty that 

Spurred by these painful recollections, 
the harassed officer dashed for the police 
'phone. The citizen hurried back to No. 10, 
where a few minutes later he was rejoined 
by the patrolman and two reserves. These 
latter were stationed, one a few doors each 
side of No. 10, to cut off an escape from the 
front. Two others had already been sent 
into the street in the rear to prevent a break 
in that direction. 

" Ke hasn't come back through the front, 
unless he's uncommonly clever," whispered 
he of the dinner-coat. ' I fixed the bars so 
that I could tell if they'd been disturbed, 
and they haven't been." 

The patrolman, after a brief inspection, 
slipped silently through the broken bars. A 
moment later the other followed. 

" Go back ! " commanded the officer, with 
as much authority as could be put into a 
barely audible whisper. 

" Nothing doing ! " breathed the citizen, 
even more firmly into the ear of the law. 
" I'm going to see the fun. It's jolly old 
midsummer madness perhaps, but -I don't 
get such a chance often." 

Again the irrepressible chuckle. 

It was no time nor place for argument. 
Force was equally out of the question with 
the chance of being peppered with a revolver 
out of the darkness at the slightest dis- 
turbance. So the officer yielded. 

Down a black, close passage they tiptoed. 
The sense of walking blindfold into a trap 
was even more suffocating than the air of 
the little-used basement. But, either through 
bravado or desire for protection, the citizen 
carried on staunchly at the officer's heels. 
Up a narrow flight of steps they felt their 
way to the first floor, then halted in surprise. 

The broad stairway leading to the second 
floor was half lighted by a narrow gleam 
from the partly-open door of a room off the 
upper landing. In that apartment someone 
was leisurely moving about and humming in 
a pleasant baritone. 

Dinner-Coat halted and tugged nervously 
at his Up. Tn his r>r?rnrise the officer stepped 

* I I H I 

I I "V I I 


Garret Smith 


" A man in shirt- sleeves, calmly undoing his necktie, stepped out to the head of the 
staits. 'What the deuce does this mean?' he exclaimed." 

Digitized by dOOQlC 

_- 1 1 >_l 1 1 1 >.i 1 1 1 ■.' 1 1 



The Host at No. 10 

back and into noisy collision with a heavy 
chair, ghostly in its summer cerements. The 
disturbed furniture snarled harsh protest. 
The melody ceased. The door above swung 
open. A man irf shirt-sleeves, calmly un- 
doing his necktie, stepped out to the head of 
the stairs. 

He was a person of middle size and age, 
light of complexion and prosperous of bear- 
ing. The eyes that searched the dim stair- 
way were keen and calm. 

" Is that you, Walter ? " he demanded, 
sharply. " What do you mean by staying 
out like this ? Haven't I told you " 

But at that instant he had pressed a switch 
and the hall lamp flashed on, revealing to his 
startled eye a puzzled policeman and an 
amused citizen in dinner-coat. 

" What in — what the deuce does this 
mean ? " exclaimed the man at the stairhead 
when he had his voice in hand. 

The gentleman in dinner-coat raised warn- 
ing palm and dashed lightly up the stairs, 
followed somewhat doubtfully by the less 
agile officer. Without waiting for the latter 
to collect his wits, the citizen acted as spokes- 

11 Did you by any chance just come in 
through your basement window ? Lost key 
and all that sort of thing ? " 

" No. What's the joke ? Been in two 
hours ! " 

" Then there's a burglar in the house ! 
Saw him breaking in — area window — called 
police. Got the house surrounded. Must 
have hidden when he found you here." 

" Good Lord ! " husked the semi-disrobed 
one, diving for the bedroom. " Let me get 
my revolver." 

He returned in a moment with a heavy 

" So that's why my valet is out so late/' 
he whispered. " Fellow must have waylaid 
him outside. I have been reading in the 
library ever since I got home. Must have 
started for bed just about the time he broke 
in. Lord ! He may be hiding somewhere, 
ready to pepper us ! " 

BY now Officer Blaney had readjusted his 
mind to the situation and was all 
cool efficiency. He had come prepared 
for a still hunt for an unconscious quarry, 
and found himself faced with the problem 
of running down a trapped but thoroughly 
warned and desperate man, presumably am- 
bushed somewhere in the dark house and 
ready to shoot without hesitation, knowing 
it to be his only chance of escape. The 
advantage had shifted entirely to the side of 
the intruder. 

Most normally brave men must admit an 
atavistic fear of darkness and the unknown, 
reminiscent of sabre-toothed tigers and 


winged reptiles that haunted the dreams of 
our cave-dwelling ancestors in the primeval 
jungle. Many a veteran from the trenches 
feels his scalp creep when he follows a lonely 
country road or a dark alley at midnight. 
Blaney, who had before now leaped single- 
handed into the midst of a gang fight, his 
Irish heart beating a paean of joy, trembled 
as he peered down the dark hall, whose terror 
was unseen, but no mere creature of the 

He snapped off the light as a first pre- 

" Gad ! We'd 'a' made sweet targets for 
that guy if he'd wanted to pot us from down- 
stairs. You gentlemen stay right here. If 
everybody goes prowlin' around, we'll be 
shootin' each other. I'll begin at the top an* 
work down. He may try to beat it, an' 
we'll let him. The boys outside'll get him. 
It's ticklish business pokin' around in a dark 
house when you got a guy with a gun cor- 
nered somewhere in the place." 

The officer, courage and revolver firmly in 
hand, tiptoed to the top floor. Then, at in- 
tervals purposely betraying his presence by 
a heavy step or a word he searched from 
floor to floor. He aimed to give the intruder 
warning of his whereabouts, but not quite 
definite enough to furnish accurate pistol 
range. He hoped the fellow would grasp 
at a forlorn chance of escape while he thought 
his pursuer was upstairs. The outside men 
could be counted on to nip that hope. 

Each time he paused to listen, the old 
house, displaying that devilish attribute of 
all dark and nearly empty houses, seemed 
alive with insidious, suppressed sounds. A 
creaking board made his heart leap violently. 
He wasted breathless minutes listening to 
the nibbling of an industrious mouse in a 
wainscoting. In more than one black room 
he could have sworn that he heard soft 
breathing and felt a human presence. In 
the lower hall he nearly discharged his 
automatic into a mirror when an umbrella 
that had been leaned against the wall at an 
unstable angle slid clamorously to the floor. 

He could have shouted with relief when 
pursuit of these tactics from attic to base- 
ment had brought no results. Inquiry of 
the officers outside showed that no one had 
made a break for the open. 

Sorely puzzled, Blaney returned to his 
companions on the second floor. 

Meantime the gentleman in dinner-coat, 
disregarding warnings, had been tiptoeing 
about doing some independent investigating 
with a small pocket-flash such as some gentle- 
men carry, handy in locating anything from 
a runaway collar-button to an unresponsive 
keyhole. To all appearances his nerves 
responded to none of the thrills that had 
beset the officer, 


Garret Smith 


He returned to the rendezvous at the same 
time as Blaney. The third man was stolidly 
awaiting them, his phlegmatic face showing 
little excitement over the search. 

" He's not on this floor," Dinner-Coat an- 
nounced triumphantly. " I've pried into 
every cupboard and under every piece of 
furniture and locked up each room when I 
finished. Got the keys in my pocket. He 
can't dodge round and hide on this floor 

" Gad ! You had yer nerve ! " admired 
Policeman Blaney. " You oughta be a cop. 
You wouldn't be so foolish if ye were, though. 
He'd 'a' had the drop on ye in any one o' 
them rooms if he'd been there." 

"Oh, I don't know. I thought I'd get 
away with it. Now I suggest this. Let's 
scour the rest of the place together. We'll 
call out to the beggar that there's three of 
us, and prove it by spreading out in the dark 
in each hall and each putting in a word. 
We'll remind him that if he tries shooting 
he can get only one at the most, and we'll 
have him for murder. That'll smoke him 
out. I'll volunteer to carry the flash. I'll 
hold it so he won't have a good mark to 
shoot at. We'll light up and lock each room 
after we've searched it." 

" All right," agreed the officer, " if this 
other gentleman's game." 
1 m game. 

" Ye both oughta be on the force," mut- 
tered the Bluecoat. 

As they were feeling their way about in 
the third-floor hall, the flash in the hand of 
the volunteer torch-bearer suddenly went 
on, throwing their host into a circle of light. 
There was a sibilant duet of profanity. 

" Beg pardon ! " apologized Dinner-Coat. 
" It was an accident." 

But it seemed to amuse him as much as it 
alarmed the others, for he chuckled again as 
he moved off. 

FROM room to room, through every possible 
hiding-place, from attic to cellar, they 
scoured their perilous way in search for 
the human rattlesnake. But there was no 
response to their offer of armistice and no 
sound to betray a thief's presence. 

Back on the second floor the officer 
snapped on a light. 

" Nothin' doin'," he decided. " If it 
wasn't for the busted bars I'd say this gentle- 
man's eyes had come a trick on him. The 
fellow musta caught on to you, sir, and 
slipped right out again while you were after 

" But," demurred Dinner-Coat, " those 
same bars prove that he didn't escape that 
way. I arranged them so carefully that he 
couldn't have disturbed tfiem without my 
knowing it when I came back. 

VoL lx.-17. 

" Any other place he could be hiding in 
that we haven't thought of, or any other 
way he could have slipped out ? " he added 
to their host. " How about secret passages ? 
Have you had the house long ? Some of 
these old places were polite gambling shows 
once. You sure there aren't any secret 
nooks, sliding panels with hidden springs ; 
aU that sort of stuff ? " 

" Not a cranny," he replied, evidently 
much relieved. " No chance of that secret 
stuff. Every other window and door locked 
on the inside, too, including the night lock on 
the front door." 

" There's just one answer," decided the 
officer. " He was a sly card, that fellow. 
He prob'ly was listenin' just inside that 
window while you was fixin' the bars nice 
an' neat, an' when he came out he fixed 'em 
again the way he found 'em. Prob'ly slipped 
along up the street in the shadow and hid in 
another area till he had a chance to skip. 
He's miles away by now." 

" Maybe so," grudgingly admitted Dinner- 
Coat. He seemed dissatisfied and distraught, 
as though he were still debating the subject 
within himself. 

" Well, I'm sorry the cuss got away," 
admitted their host. " Nevertheless, you've 
. driven him off and saved me from being 
burgled. Let me show my appreciation by 
offering you a drink before you go. I have 
a flask of passable stuff in my room. Was 
just about" to have a night-cap when the 
show began." 

" I ain't supposed to," grinned Officer 
Blaney ; " but it's a dry town these days, and 
I might this once." 

" Drink, drink, and be merry, for to- 
morrow ye are dry," chuckled Dinner- 

They repaired to their host's bedroom. 

" Here's to the bravest and most pains- 
taking of our police force," offered their host 
over his own three fingers of red liquor. 

Blaney acknowledged the toast ab- 
stractedly, either not noting or ignoring its 
fulsomeness and the subtle note of irony 
behind it. 

He was still puzzling over the mystery of 
the vanishing crook. He was still listening 
for some telltale sound somewhere in the 
dark spaces of the house. 

1 I'll have a job explainin' this to the 
chief ! " he sighed, as he rose to go. 

4 Don't worry about that," their host 
assured him. ' 1 11 speak a good word for 
you at headquarters to-morrow. 

"And you, sir," he added, turning to the 
other gentleman, " I can't thank you enough 
for your tintely discovery. I might have 
been murdered in my bed." 

" It's nothing," the other responded. 
" By the way, shall we introduce ourselves ? 


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Original from 

Garret Smith 


hi* revolver arm clamped to his side end the other man's automatic peering into his [ace. 
purred Dinner-Coat*" 

" It means that our supposed host is the 
fellow you've been hunting for, and that I'm 
the real host," explained Dinner-Coat. " If 
you'll pick up my card which this gentleman 
dropped, you 'It see.** 

On the card the astonished patrolman read 
the name, M James H* Forsythe*" 

" You'll find a Jot more of them in this 
card-case, which also bears my monogram. 
You 11 find in my pocket letters addressed to 
me, the keys to this houss k and other evidence 


if you need more pi oof than the bare fact 
that this fellow tried to shoot me the moment 
he read my name. Also my name's in the 
telephone hook, hanging on a brass hook 
over the wall phone in the alcove under the 
stairs on the first floor." 

Blaney came out of his trance and produced 
the handcuffs. 

w The deal's off ! You got me," sullenly 
admitted the captive. " But why all the 
movin' -picture stuff ? * 



The Host at No. 10 

" Yes, sir," Blaney joined in, sharing his 
captive's indignation. " Couldn't you have 
told me who you were in the first place, sir, 
an' me gettin' grey hairs huntin' a fake 
crook in the dark ? " 

" Now, now, gentlemen, let's be friends. I 
admit I was a bit melodramatic. I owe you 
something of an apology, too, officer. I took 
it for granted at first that you understood I 
was the tenant of the house. I didn't realize 
I hadn't made that clear till I saw you had 
been taken in by the impromptu bluff our 
friend here put up when we surprised him at 
work. But, you see, at that moment 1 was 
afraid he might have the drop on us and 
shoot first if I warned you. So I played for 
time by pretending to be an unsuspecting 
outsider. Then he played the game so 
cleverly that I simply had to watch his work 
for a while. He made one slip. When I 
flashed the light on him upstairs he was 
fumbling around like a stranger in the house. 
I thought you'd get wise then, officer. I've 
had to deal with gentlemen crooks before, 
but not those of the house-breaking class. 
You see, my work for the Government has to 
do with running down Uncle Sam's crooked 
enemies. So I had a semi-professional in- 
terest in this." 

He turned back his coat for an instant, and 
the badge Blaney saw there swept away any 
further captious criticism. 

11 And now, gentlemen," the reinstated 
householder continued, " as your real host, 
allow me to do the honours. I know where 
the sideboard is with the house's main supply 
of liquors. We'll have one more round before 
this pleasant party breaks up. 

" You see, you made one other slip, my 
friend," he added to the handcuffed man ; 
" but I can't blame the officer for not noting 
that. If you'd been letter perfect you'd have 
led us down to the high-grade article the 
house affords, instead of treating us to the — 
ah, pardon me — rather inferior stuff in the 
flask you brought in with you." 

They adjourned ta the dining-room and 
had that one more, even their ex-host 
joining in. 

After he had seen the officer and his 
prisoner out, Dinner-Coat stood for a moment 
musing in the hall. He was chuckling again 
and pulling at the imaginary moustache, 
recently sacrificed for business reasons. 

Then he returned leisurely to the bedroom 
on the second floor and restored to the 
business suit hanging in the cupboard the 
card-case, letters, keys, and secret service 
badge he had found there while assisting 
Blaney in his hunt and for which he had no 
further use. That painstaking search of the 
house had also revealed the location of the wall 
safe behind the sideboard in the dining-room. 
He next turned his attention to that. 

A few minutes later, with the Forsythe 
silver and jewellery in roomy, false pockets 
under his dinner-coat, he stepped boldly out 
of the front door of No. io. 

A BRIEF shower had cooled the air while 
the drama within was being enacted. 
A gentle breeze fanned his cheeks. 
The pearling of early dawn tinted the sjcy 
above the housetops. He paused on the 
dark steps and drew a deep, satisfied breath. 

" What a night of midsummer madness ! " 
he chuckled. " And who of us was the mad- 
dest, I ask you ? " 

Then, in leisurely fashion, he descended the 
steps and into the arms of Officer Blaney. 

" 'Tis as I thought, but I waited for ye to 
prove it," said that patiently watchful waiter 
as he snapped on the handcuffs. " Ye see, 
me boy, if ye hadn't tried to play host too 
ye woulda got away with it. But when ye 
led us into the dining-room ye started to 
push the door open whilst it properly opened 
toward ye. I misdoubted then that any 
gentleman of parts belongin' at home 
wouldn't know which way a door swung 
open to a grand layout of booze such as ye 
led us to." 


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Fresh Air Fund. 226, Great Portland Street, London, W. 1. 



The „ 




WHETHER the reader belongs to 
that majority who are incred- 
ulous upon the subject, or to 
that increasing minority who 
accept the evidence, he can hardly fail to 
be interested in the circumstances in which 
the whole strange psychic movement arose. 
The student is aware that there was a long 
preparatory stage which began with Sweden - 
borg and Mesmer, and ended with Andrew 
Jackson Davis, called the Poughkeepsie 
Seer, who at an early age, without education, 
wrote or dictated one of the deepest, most 
comprehensive explanations of the universe 
ever framed. Passing these we will begin 
the narrative with the happenings of Hydes- 
ville, and give some account of these less- 
known developments which followed the 
new movement, sometimes to its great 
glory and sometimes to its temporary 

The hamlet of Hydesville, near Rochester, 
in the State of New York, consisted of a 
cluster of wooden houses of a very humble 
type. In one of these, a residence which 
would hardly pass the requirements of a 
British district council surveyor, there began 
this development which will, in my opinion, 
prove to be far the most important thing 
which America has given to the common 
weal of the world. It was inhabited by a 
decent farmer family of the name of Fox — 
a name which, by a curious coincidence, has 
been already registered in religious history 
as that of the evangel of the Quakers. 
Besides the father and mother, who were 
Methodists in religion, there were two 

Copyright, i 9 ao, by 


children resident in the house at the time 
when the manifestations reached such a 
point of intensity that they attracted 
general attention. These children were the 
daughters, Margaret, aged fifteen, and Kate, 
aged twelve. 

About the beginning of 1848 many loud 
noises like sudden blows had been heard 
both by day and by night in the house, 
accompanied by a vibration of the furniture. 
Rats, mice, and the hammering of a neigh- 
bouring cobbler were all put forward as 
explanations, and each proved equally inade- 
quate. As the spring advanced these sounds 
became more insistent and more varied in 
character, and occasionally were accom- 
panied by actual motions of the furniture. 
It was soon observed that daylight was 
inimical to the phenomena, and the idea of 
trickery was thereby suggested, but careful 
watch by Mr. Fox failed to detect anytliing 
of the kind. Finally, upon March 31st, 
there was a very loud and continued out- 
break of inexplicable sounds. It was upon 
this evening that one of the great points in 
the history of psychic evolution was reached, 
for it was then that young Kate Fox, having 
lost all sense of fear in the presence of that 
which use had made familiar, challenged 
the unseen power to repeat the snaps of her 
fingers. This challenge, though given in 
flippant words, was instantly accepted. 
Each snap was answered by a knock. How- 
ever humble the operator at either end, the 
spiritual telegraph was at last working, and 
it was left to the patience and moral earnest- 
ness of the human race to determine how 

A Conan Doyle. 



The Uncharted Coast 

high might be the uses to which it was put 
in the future. Unexplained forces were 
many in the world, but here was a force 
claiming to have independent intelligence 
at the back of it. That was the supreme 
sign of a new departure. " Fancy a new 
spiritual departure in a frame house in an 
American hamlet ! " Yes, and fancy a pre- 
vious one in a camel-driver's tent in Arabia, 
and before that the greatest of all in a car- 
penter's shop in Judea ! Exaltavit humiles ! 

Mrs. Fox was amazed at this development, 
and at the further discovery that the force 
could apparently see as well as hear, for when 
Kate snapped her fingers without sound the 
rap still responded. The mother asked a 
series of questions, the answers to which, 
given in numerals, showed a greater know- 
ledge of her own affairs than she herself 
possessed, for the raps insisted that she had 
had seven children, whereas she protested 
that she had six, until one who had died 
early came back to her mind. A neighbour, 
Mrs. Redfield, was called in, and her amuse- 
ment was changed to wonder, and finally to 
awe, as she also listened to the correct 
answers to intimate questions. 

The neighbours came flocking in as some 
rumours of these wonders got about, and the 
two children were carried off by one of them, 
while Mrs. Fox went to spend the night at 
Mrs. Redfield 's. In their absence the 
phenomena went on exactly the same as 
before, which disposes once for all of those 
theories of cracking toes and dislocating 
knees which have been so frequently put 
forward by people unaware of the true facts. 
The happenings of the night were at once 
recorded and were printed in pamphlet form 
within three weeks of the event, so that it 
would be difficult to get more prompt and 
direct testimony, which was subscribed to by 
a number of disinterested witnesses. 

HAVING formed a sort of informal com- 
mittee of investigation, the crowd, in 
shrewd Yankee fashion, spent a large 
part of the night of March 31st in playing 
question and answer with the unseen intelli- 
gence. According to its own account he was 
a spirit, he had been injured in that house, 
he rapped out the name of a former occupant 
who had injured him, he was thirty-one years 
old at the time of death which was five years 
before, he had been murdered for money, he 
had been buried in the cellar ten feet deep. On 
descending to the cellar dull, heavy thumps, 
coming apparently from under the earth, 
broke out when the investigator stood at the 
centre. There was no sound at other times. 
That, then, was the place of burial ! It was 
a neighbour named Duesler who, first of all 
modern men, called over the alphabet and 
got answers by raps on the letters. In this 

Digitized by VjOOQ IC 

way the name of the dead man was obtained 
— Charles B. Rosma. The idea of connected 
messages was not developed until four 
months later, when Isaac Post, a Quaker of 
Rochester, was the first pioneer. Such, in 
very brief outline, were the events of March 
31st, which were ■ continued and confirmed 
upon the succeeding night, when not less than 
a couple of hundred people had assembled 
round the house. Upon April 2nd it was 
observed that the raps came in the day as 
well as at night. 

Excavations were begun in the cellar, but 
the spring thaw and a swollen river had 
flooded the land, and water was struck a 
foot or so below the surface. When the 
summer came, a hole was dug by David Fox, 
the young son, who had come from a distant 
farm after the disturbances broke out. He 
was aided by Henry Bush, Lyman Granger 
of Rochester, and others. His account of 
what occurred was published in Capron's 
" Modern Spiritualism," 1855, and was con- 
firmed personally in conversation with the 
Hon. Dale Owen, so that the evidence is very 
clear and direct. They passed a plank five 
feet down, and below it came on some 
crockery, charcoal, and quicklime, under 
which was some human hair, several bones, 
and part of a human skull. Clearer evidence 
of murder and its concealment could hardly 
be asked for. These were corroborative 
details, for a young girl, Lucretia Pulver, 
came forward with an account of how a 
pedlar had called there while she was acting 
as " help " to Mr. and Mrs. Bell. He had 
remained for the night, while she, the girl, 
had been sent away, and was kept away 
three days. The pedlar had promised to call 
at her father's house, but he never came. 
On her return she had heard for the first 
time the rappings and noises in the house. 
She observed that the centre of the cellar 
was soft, which was explained by Mrs. Bell 
as being due to rat-holes. Afterwards, 
Mr. Bell carried down some earth and was at 
work for some time. Shortly afterwards the 
Bells left the house and the neighbourhood, 
but their successors, the Weekmans, were 
conscious of the same noises which finally 
culminated under the Fox tenancy. 

As might be expected, Bell, who was a 
blacksmith by trade, vigorously denied this 
accusation and produced many certificates as 
a proof that he was a man of good character. 
The spiritual story was also weakened by the 
fact that the man Rosma could not be traced 
in Orange County, New York, whence he pro- 
fessed to have come, and a search for five 
alleged children was equally fruitless. This 
is less remarkable as he was by profession a 
wanderer. It must be admitted that the case 
against Bell needed further corroboration 
before it could be c;ilied substantial. Two 


A* Conan Doyle 


great undoubted results did emerge, however, 
which have never been shaken, that the origin 
of the raps could by no means be explained, 
and that they did convey the unknown fact that 
a human body had been buried in the cellar, 
This is the vital core of the whole matter, 
for it touched that which is of eternal interest 
to all of us, while the question of individual 
guilt is temporary and incidental. 

THE danger of blindly following alleged 
spirit guidance was clearly shown 
some months later in the neigh* 
bouring town of Rochester, where a man 
disappeared under suspicious circumstances. 
An enthusiastic Spiritualist had messages 
by raps which announced a murder. The 

are with us still. The silly man, the arrogant 
inflated man, the cock-sure man, is always a 
safe butt. Every observer has liad some 
trick played upon him. I have myself had 
my faith sorely shaken by deception until 
some compensating proof has come along to 
assure me that it was only a lesson which I 
had received, and that it was no more 
fiendish or even remarkable that disembodied 
intelligences should be hoaxers, than that 
the same intelligence inside a human body 
should find amusement in the same foolish 

The first effect of the new dispensation was 
to bring utter misery and ruin to the Fox 
family. Within, their house there were con- 
stant disturbances from the insistent manifest 

The home o( the Fox family, in which modern spirit messages were first received. 
now bears the inscription ** Here Spiritualism originated in 1 848/* 

canal was dragged, and the wife of the 
missing man was actually ordered to enter 
the canal, which nearly cost her her life* 
Some months later the absentee returned, 
having fled to Canada to avoid a writ 
for debt, This, as may well be imagined, 
was a blow to the young cult. The public 
did not then understand what even now is 
so little understood, that death causes no 
change in the human spirit, that mischievous 
and humorous entities abound, and that the 
inquirer must use his own instincts and his 
own common sense at every turn. " Try 
the spirits that ye may know them." In the 
same year, in the same district, the truth of 
this new philosophy upon the one side, and 
its limitations and dangers on the other, 
were most clearly set forth. These dangers 

tat ions, while from without they wert plagued 
by sight -seers and wonder-mongers, many of 
whom looker 1 upon the unfortunate people as 
being concerned in something diabolical. 
Kate was sent away to Rochester to join her 
married sister, Mrs. Fish, but her absence 
appears to have had no effect upon the sounds 
which continued to disturb the family, who 
at last abandoned Hydesville altogether," 
hoping that the manifestations would re- 
main behind. It speedily became evident, 
however, that the unseen powers were no 
longer attached to the place, but that 
they specially associated themselves with 
the two girls, for they were as insistent in 
the town as in the hamlet. In vain the 
family prayed with their Methodist friends 
that relief siiouM come , In vain also were the 



The Uncharted Coast 

exorcisms of the ministers of various creeds. 
Beyond joining with loud raps in the Amens, 
the unseen presences took no notice of these 
religious exercises. 

The whole course of the movement had 
now widened and taken a more important 
turn. It was no longer a murdered man 
calling for justice. The pedlar seemed to 
have been used as a pioneer, and now that 
he had found the opening and the method, a 
myriad of Intelligences were swarming at his 
back. Isaac Post had instituted the method 
of spelling by raps, and messages were 
pouring through. According to these the 
whole system had been devised by the 
contrivance of a band of thinkers and in- 
ventors upon the spirit plane, foremost 
among whom was Benjamin Franklin, whose 
eager mind and electrical knowledge in earth 
life might well qualify him for such a venture. 
Whether this claim was true or not, it is a 
fact that Rosma dropped out of the picture 
at this stage, and that the intelligent knock- 
ings purported to be from the deceased 
friends of those inquirers who were prepared 
to take a serious interest in the matter, and 
to gather in reverent mood to receive the 
messages. That they still lived and stall 
loved was the constant message from the 
beyond, accompanied by many material tests, 
which confirmed the wavering faith of the 
new adherents of the movement. When 
asked for their methods of working and the 
laws which governed them, the answers were 
from the beginning exactly what they are 
now — that it was a matter concerned with 
human and spirit magnetism, that some who 
were richly endowed with this physical 
property were mediums, that this endow- 
ment was pot necessarily allied to morality 
or intelligence, and that the condition of 
harmony was especially necessary to secure 
good results. In seventy-two years we have 
learned very little more — and after all these 
years the primary law of harmony is invaria- 
bly broken at the so-called test stances, the 
members of which imagine that they have 
disproved the philosophy when they obtain 
no results, whereas they have actually con- 
firmed it. 

In one of the early communications the 
Fox sisters were assured that " these mani- 
festations would not be confined to them, 
but would go all over the world." This 
"prophecy was soon in a fair way to be fulfilled, 
for these new powers, and further develop- 
ments of them which included the discerning 
and hearing of spirits and the movement of 
objects without contact, appeared in many 
circles which were independent of the Fox 
family. In an incredibly short space of time 
the movement, with many eccentricities and 
phases of fanaticism, had swept over the 
Northern and Eastern States of the Union, 

Digitized by LiOOS K: 

always retaining that solid core of actual 
tangible fact, which might be occasionally * 
simulated by impostors but always re- 
asserted itself to the serious investigator 
who could shake himself free from pre- 
conceived prejudice. Disregarding for the 
moment these wider developments, let us 
continue the story of the original circles at 

The spirit messages had urged upon the 
small band of pioneers a public demon- 
stration of their powers in an open meeting 
at Rochester — a proposition which was 
naturally appalling to two shy country girls 
and to their friends. So incensed were the 
discarnate Guides by the opposition of their 
earthly agents that they threatened to sus- 
pend the whole movement for a generation, 
and did actually desert them completely 
for some weeks. At the end of that 
time communication was restored and the 
believers, chastened by this interval of 
thought, put themselves unreservedly into 
the hands of the outside forces, promising 
that they would dare all in the cause. It was 
no light matter. A few of the clergy, 
notably a Methodist named the Rev. A. H. 
Jervis, rallied to their aid, but the majority 
thundered from their pulpits against them, 
and the mob eagerly joined in the cowardly 
sport of heretic-baiting. On November 14th, 
1849, the Spiritualists held their first meeting 
at the Corinthian Hall, the largest available 
in Rochester. The audience, to its credit, 
listened with attention to the exposition of 
facts from Mr. Capron of Auburn, the 
principal speaker. A committee of five 
representative citizens was then selected to 
examine into the matter and to report upon 
the following evening, when the meeting 
would reassemble. So certain was it that 
this report would be unfavourable that the 
Rochester Democrat is stated to have had 
its leading article prepared, with the head- 
line : * 4 Entire Exposure of the Rapping 
Humbug." The result, however, caused the 
editor to hold his hand. The committee 
reported that the raps were undoubted facts, 
though the information was not invariably 
correct. They added that these raps Came 
on walls and doors some distance from the 
girls, causing a sensible vibration. •' They 
entirely failed to find any means by which it 
could be done/' 

This report was received with disapproval 
by the audience and a second committee from * 
among the dissentients was formed. This 
investigation was conducted in the office oi 
a lawyer. Kate, for some reason, was away, 
and only Mrs. Fish and Margaret present. 
None the less, the sounds continued as 
before, though a Dr. Langworthy was intro- 
duced to test the possibility of ventriloquism. 
The final report >vj*s tlbat " the sounds were 


A* Conan Doyle 


heard, and their thorough investigation had 
conclusively shown thorn to be produced 
neither by machinery nor ventriloquism, 
though what the agent is they were unable 
to det ermine .** 

Again the audience turned down the report 
of their own committee, and again a deputa- 
tion was chosen from among the most ex- 
treme opponents, one of whom vowed that if 
he could not find out the trick he would 
throw himself over the Falls of the Genessee 
River. Their examination was thorough to 
the length of bru- 
tality, and a com- ^ 
mi t tee of ladies 
were associated 
with it. The latter 
stripped the 
frightened girls, 
who wept bitterly 
under their af- 
flictions. Their 
dresses were then 
tied tightly round 
their ankles, and 
they were placed 
upon glass and 
other insulators, 
The committee 
was forced to re- 
port " when they 
were standing on 
pillows with a 
handkercluef tied 
round the bottom 
of their dresses, 
tight to the ankles, 
we all heard the 
rapping on the 
wall and floor 
distinctly," The 
committee further 
testified that their 
questions, some 
of them mental, 
had been answered 


/l^c^^ J*> 

SO long as the 
public looked 
upon the 
movement as a sort of a joke it was pre- 
pared to be tolerantly amused, but when 
these successive reports put the matter in a 
more serious light, a wave of blackguardism 
swept over the town, w f hich reached such 
a pitch that Mr. Willetts, a gallant Quaker, 
was -compelled at the fourth public meeting 
to declare that " the mob of ruffians who 
designed to lynch the girls should do so, if 
they attempted it, over his dead body." 
There was a disgraceful riot, the young women 
were smuggled out by a back door, and reason 
and justice were for the moment clouded over 


Kate Fox, the first modern medium 

by force and folly. Then, as now, the minds 
of the average men of the world were so 
crammed with the things that do not matter 
that they had no space for the things that 
do matter. But Fate is never in a hurry and 
the movement went on. Many accepted the 
findings of the successive committees as 
being final, and indeed it is difficult to see 
how the alleged lacts could have been more 
severely tested. At the same time this 
strong new fermenting wine began to burst 
some of the old bottles into which it was 

poured to the ex- 
cusable disgust of 
the public. 

The many dis- 
creet, serious, and 
religious circles 
were for a season 
almost obscured 
by swollen -headed 
ranters, who ima- 
gined themselves 
to be in touch 
with every high 
entity from the 
Apostles down- 
wards, some even 
claiming the di- 
rect afflatus of the 
Holy Ghost and 
emitting messages 
which were only 
saved from being 
blasphemous by 
their crudity and 
absurdity. One 
community of 
these fanatics, 
who called them- 
selves the Apos- 
tolic Circle of 
Mountain Cove, 
particularly dis- 
tinguished them- 
selves by their 
extreme claims 
and furnished 
good material for 
the enemies of the 
new dispensation. 
The great body of Spiritualists turned away 
in disapproval from such exaggerations, but 
were unable to prevent them. Many well- 
attested supernormal phenomena came to 
support the failing spirits of those who were 
distressed by the excesses of the fanatics. 
On one occasion, which is particularly con- 
vincing and well -reported, two bodies of 
investigators in separate rooms received the 
same message simultaneously from some 
central force which called itself Benjamin 
Franklin* This double message was : 
" There will fa? great changes in the nineteenth 





2 5 8 

The Uncharted Coast 

century. Things that now look dark will 
be made plain. The world will be enlight- 
ened." It must be admitted that the 
prophecy has up to now been only partially 
fulfilled — and -it may at the same time be 
conceded that, with some startling excep- 
tions, the forecasts of the Spirit people 
have not been remarkable for accuracy, 
especially where the element of time is 

THE question has often been asked : 
" What was the purpose of so strange 
a movement at this particular time, 
granting that it is all that it claims to be ? " 
Governor Tallmadge, a United States Senator 
of repute, was one of the early converts to 
the new cult, and he has left it upon 
record that he asked this question upon two 
separate occasions in two different years 
from different mediums. The answer in 
each case was almost identical. The first 
said : " IJ is to draw mankind together in 
harmony and to convince sceptics of the 
immortality of the soul." The second said : 
" To unite mankind and to convince sceptics 
of the immortality of the soul." Surely this 
is no ignoble ambition and does not justify 
those narrow and bitter attacks from 
ministers and the less progressive of their 
flocks from which Spiritualists have up to 
the present day had to suffer. The first 
half of the definition is, I think, particularly 
important, for I believe that one of the 
ultimate results of this movement will be to 
unite Christianity upon a common basis so 
strong and, indeed, self-sufficient that the 
quibbles which separate the Churches of 
to-day will be seen in their true proportion 
and will be swept away or disregarded. One 
could even hope that such a movement 
might spread beyond the bounds of Christian- 
ity and throw down some of the barriers 
which stand between great sections of the 
human race. 

Within two years from the crisis at Hydes- 
ville, the Fox sisters, still little more than 
children, were in New York, in the centre of 
the huge public discussion which raged round 
the subject. They stayed as guests for a 
short time in the house of Horace Greeley, 
the famous editor of the New York 
Tribune, one of the clearest thinkers in 
America, arid whilst there gave constant 
exhibitions of their strange powers. Greeley 
had the courage to imperil the fortunes of 
his great newspaper by publicly stating that 
the phenomena which he had tested were 
undoubtedly genuine. " We devoted what 
time we could spare from our duties, out of 
three days, to this subject," he wrote. " It 
would be the basest cowardice not to say 
that we are convinced beyond a doubt of the 
ladies' perfect integrity and good faith. 

Digitized by dOOglC 

Whatever may be the origin or cause of the 
rappings, the ladies in whose presence they 
occur do not make them. We tested this 
thoroughly and to our entire satisfaction. 
Their conduct and bearing are as unlike that 
of deceivers as possible." So said Horace 
Greeley, cute Yankee and man of the world, 
after personal investigation. Against this, 
what is the worth of the opinion of people 
who even now talk nonsense about cracking 
joints and ventriloquism ? 

What impressed the New Yorkers as much 
as the actual sounds was the extreme accuracy 
of the answers and the fact that unspoken 
questions were replied to as readily as those 
which were audible. We have records of 
one particular stance at which there were 
more famous men assembled than have ever 
perhaps been present at one demonstration. 
Among them were Fenimore Cooper, the 
novelist, Bancroft, the historian, CulJen 
Bryant and N. P. Willis, poets, Bigelow, 
Dr. Griswold, with several doctors and clergy- 
men. As befitted such a company the 
phenomena were mental rather than material, 
but absolutely convincing. Mrs. Fox and 
the three daughters were the mediums. * It 
is interesting to note that half an hour 
elapsed before any sounds were heard. 
Strong brains charged with prejudice were 
present and time was needed, even by those 
remarkable mediums, to harmonize the 
conditions. Then at last came slight sounds, 
increasing gradually in volume until they 
were very clear. Each member of the 
company in turn asked questions, some 
mentally, some aloud, and all attested that 
the correct answers were given by the 
knockings. The record is too long to give 
in detail, but some of the information was so 
exact and so unusual that it was absolutely 
convincing. It is said that nearly all the 
guests were converted by this remarkable 
experience, and that this knowledge coming 
when their feet were, as the future proved, 
on the very threshold of death, was of 
inestimable comfort to Cooper and to Willis. 

In the presence of these extraordinary 
happenings it may be imagined that American 
science was not silent. It was loud in its 
mockery and disapproval. At last the flood 
rising from that small spring at Hydesville 
had become so great that it could no longer 
be ignored. The religious exorcisms had 
failed. Could not science put a stop once 
for all to this disturbing intrusion ? There 
were two scientists in the United States at 
that time who had a European reputation. 
One was Agassiz, the naturalist,' the other 
Robert Hare, the chemist, who invented 
among other things the oxy-hydrogen blow- 
pipe. It was Robert Hare who went forth 
to slay the new delusion. He started in that 
thoroughly unscientific frame of mind in 

Ulllal I I _' I 1 1 


A. Conan Doyle 259 


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' Mi. Willetts, a gallant Quaker, was compelled to declare that 'the mob of ruffians viho 
designed to lynch the girls should do so, if they attempted it, over his dead body.* " 




The Uncharted Coast 

which science has always approached the 
question. He felt called upon, he said, " to 
bring whatever influence he possessed to the 
attempt to stem the tide of popular madness 
which, in defiance of reason and science, was 
fast setting in favour of the gross delusion 
called Spiritualism." This can hardly be 
called an impartial method of approaching 
an inquiry, and can only be compared with 
Faraday's contemporary assertion that in 
investigating such a matter one should make 
up one's mind beforehand what is possible 
and what is not. Here was a brave and 
honest man, however. The huge tome which 
recorded his investigation lies upon my table 
as I write. It is adorned with pictures of 
the spring balances, double tables, and other 
appliances with which he endeavoured to 
confound these heretics, and was himself 
confounded. So searching was his investiga- 
tion that every other one has been forestalled 
by it, for every possible source of error was 
eliminated. As a result Professor Hare 
declared after a year that he had been 
entirely mistaken, and that the claims of 
the new philosophy not only as to the 
phenomena, but as to their source and 
meaning, were absolutely justified. For this 
he was boycotted and bullied by the American 
Scientific Association, which seems to have 
behaved as unwisely as all of our own 
scientific bodies in its unreasoning opposition 
to what it did not comprehend. Whilst the 
report of this eminent scientific man was 
ignored, great stress was laid upon the 
absurd report of three unknown medical 
men of Buffalo, who declared that in their 
opinion the sounds made by the Fox sisters 
were caused by the repeated partial disloca- 
tions of their knee-joints. How these dis- 
locations answered unspoken questions was 
not explained. 

THE persecution endured by Professor 
Hare was repeated in the case of 
Judge Edmonds, head of the High 
Court of New York, who had also ap- 
proached the movement with a view to 
exposing it, but who found himself con- 
founded by the appearance of phenomena 
within his own family circle, and by the 
development of his own daughter into 
a medium, possessing in some directions 
greater powers than the Fox sisters. Like 
Professor Hare, he proclaimed his conversion 
in a book, and had to leave the Bench in 
consequence. Such intolerance was de- 
plorable, and yet there is this excuse for it, 
that numerous cranks calling themselves 
Spiritualists had burst into all sorts of wild 
theories, and also that the vile race of 
spurious mediums, or of mediums who eked 
out real powers by faked phenomena, were 

by Google 

beginning to appear and to cause those 
scandals with which we are too familiar. 
Unable to distinguish the true from the 
counterfeit, the public, busy with its own 
affairs and impatient with the claims of 
another world, was glad to dismiss the whole 
subject as one vast delusion. Its hold, 
however, was to6 strong, and before the year 
i860 it was calculated that a quarter of the 
population of the States believed in the new 
message, while it had penetrated into every 
country of the world. 

A word must be said as to the tragic fate of 
the two younger Fox sisters, a subject which 
is painful to Spiritualists and yet must be 
faced. Both fell victims to that dipsomania 
which was hereditary in the family. Each 
had made a remarkably good marriage, 
Margaret becoming the wife of Dr. Kane, 
the famous Arctic explorer, while Kate 
married Mr. Jencken, a member of the 
English Bar, The latter was very 
thoroughly tested by Professor Crookes, 
who was a most severe critic of psychic 
powers, though opponents of the move- 
ment represent him as credulous. Mar- 
garet became a Roman Catholic, and high 
influences were used, according to her own 
account, to place her in a convent. What 
with religious excitement and her hereditary 
weakness she fell in her later years into a 
pitiable state, in which she alternately de- 
nounced Spiritualism, proclaiming herself 
an impostor, and recanted her statement 
with the most solemn vows. Personally. I 
am of opinion that she was by no means free 
from the suspicion that when psychic power 
was wanting she supplemented it by fraud. 
As to her final assertions and denials I think 
that Father Thurston may be right when he 
says that both were in a sense true. Mr. 
Isaac Funk, the famous lexicographer, says 
of her in her later years, " For five dollars 
she would have denied her mother and 
sworn to anything." 

I have said that such a fate befalling the 
early mediums is painful to Spiritualists, but 
it has small bearing upon their faith. A 
medium is in no sense a teacher or an ex- 
ample, but is a passive instrument for forces 
outside herself. There have been, and are, 
many mediums who have been of saintly 
mould. There have been others who have 
yielded to some human weakness, very espe- 
cially to drink. Their powers and their 
message are to be held distinct from them- 
selves, as a Catholic would hold that a bad 
priest may celebrate a true sacrament, or a 
materialist that a foolish operator may 
transmit a wise telegram. These weaknesses 
delay the acceptance of the new knowledge. 
It still stands upon the threshold — but the 
door is slowly opening. 

Original from 




having agreed 
to draw an 
ment of Sankey's 
Sauce, conceived and 
sketched in pencil the 
picture-story which 
now to be described. 

The first drawing showed 
a poor ragged devil with sunken 
cheeks and cavernous eyes glaring wolfishly 
in through the window of a cook-house at a 
pan of sizzling sausages. 

The second showed an amiable philan- 
thropist, in a fur coat and a silk hat (the 
hall-marks of great wealth), inviting the 
scarecrow indoors to a blow-out. 

The third showed the tramp beginning 
his meal. 

The fourth, fifth, and sixth showed its 
progress, with waiters bringing more food 
every minute, the host beaming more and 
more benevolently, the proprietor of the 
place displaying more and more delight, 
and the guest growing each moment fatter. 

In the seventh the absorber of victuals 
was at last gorged. He had put on about 
ten stone. Waiters were still offering him 
dishes of various kinds, but he was waving 
them reluctantly away, while the philan- 
thropist consulted anxiously, aside, with the 

In the eighth the now completely-stuffed 
guest lay back comatose in his chair, just 
able to hold up a hand in protest at the 
very idea of his swallowing another mouth- 
ful. The proprietor was seen to trot off with 
a very knowing smile on his face. 

In the ninth picture he had returned, 
carrying a huge bottle labelled Sankey's 
Sauce, and he was offering this to the guest. 

In the tenth the guest was drinking deeply 
from this bottle. 

In the eleventh he was sitting up, grasping 
his knife and fork and grinning delightedly. 
The philanthropist and the proprietor were 
rubbing their hands with joy. 

In the twelfth the Gargantuan meal was 
resumed; some of the waiters loaded the 
guest's plate with food, while others hastened 
up with further sirloins, ducks, pork-pies, 
plum- puddings, and other comestibles. 


The innuendo con- 
veyed by all this was 
that Hunger, as a 
Best Sauce, is not 
in it with Sankey's. 
When M e n d o z a 
came to consider what 
he had drawn, he found 
himself content with all 
but his starving man. 
No," he decided, " this fellow 
won't do. Here is where a model 
is necessary. The hungry man of this 
story must be something rather special in 
the way of hungry men. He must be a 
positive Spectre of Famine. He must not 
be funny at all, and at present he is funny. 
Rigid realism is what I want here. For my 
first presentation of this poor starving devil 
a remorseless adherence to Truth is indicated. 
For so I shall get my effect by contrast, and 
earn faithfully the two hundred guineas 
which I am to receive for this drawing." 

Forthwith he took his hat and sketch-book 
and went out into the streets of London. 
He wandered long and far. And so, towards 
evening, still in search of his subject, he came 
across Hoi born into Lincoln's Inn Fields. 

Many haggard and desperate faces had he 
seen, but none of them had satisfied him 
wholly, and he meant wholly to be satisfied. 
If he hunted a week he proposed to get what 
he wanted. 

In Lincoln's Inn Fields he got it. 


by C^OOgle 


*HE man — he was a very young one; 
Mendoza judged him to be not more 
than nineteen — sat huddled up in the 
corner of a bench with one hand thrust 
deep into his trousers- pocket. He wore a 
very shiny but very well-made suit of blue 
serge, a black neckcloth, and an apology for 
a cap. His face was dead-white, and his 
cheeks were as hollow as saucers, his eyes 
were sunk inches deep in his head ; but his 
hair was reasonably short, his face was clean, 
and his chin was decently shaved. However 
empty his pockets might be, it seemed likely 
that they still contained at least a razor and 
a bit of soap — though his scissors were 
probably no longer there. The moment 
Mendoza set eyes on him he knew that his 
search was ended. 

Original from 



The Best Sauce 

-e Youth/ J he said to himself, " and Blank 
Despair. Abject Poverty, with Comfortable 
Antecedents. Fundamental Honesty, with 
no resource but Crime. This is my affair/' 

He sat down at the end of the bench, 

remote from the boy, who did not appear to 
be aware of liis presence — his glassy eyes 
never shifted from his own toes, 

11 1 think," said Mendoza, ,+ you could do 
with some money/' 

The boy turned his eyes slowly sideways. 
Otherwise he made no movement, 

" I could," he said. 

" I'm an artist," said Mendoza. " You 
shall have five shillings if you'll let me 
draw you." 

The boy gave a ghastly little laugh. " For 
five shillings," he said, " you can hang me 

and quarter me into the bargain, Where's 

your studio ? " 

" Chelsea." 
You'll have to drive me there. I couldn't 
walk it for a ten-pound note,'* 

" Til drive you there/' said Mendoza. 
11 Shall we be moving ? " 

He got up. 

' I suppose/' said the boy, " you won't 
advance me a shilling. If it comes to doing 
with things, I could do with a meal some- 
where, before we start, rather better than 
you can probably imagine/* 

'Friend/' said Mendoza, gently, "in my 
day I've been many times pretty empty 
myself. I think I know how you feel. So 
don't call me a brute, if I say No to that. 
I need you as you are. If you go and fill 
yourself up to the chin with food before I 
draw you, you'll be no use to me. It's the 
hunger in your face — God forgive me ! — - 
that I want to put on paper, and if I don't 
keep it there I won't find it. But look here. 
If you can hold out another two hours, until 
I've? drawn you, I'll make it a sovereign/' 

The boy straightened his body and took 
his hand out of his pocket. "AH right/' 
he said. ' Its a bet. Two hours won't make 
much difference. I've not eaten for two 
days. I suppose you couldn't draw me here 
and now. You've got your sketch-book, I 

"I could/ 1 said Mendoza, " but I'd 

rather not. When I draw you, I want to 

get you down finally and as you're to be. 

If I work from a pencil- sketch I shall lose 
something of your quality. It's 
beastly to have to keep you 
hungry, but Fm afraid there's no 
help for it. However, it's for vou 

to say. 

The moment Mendoza set eyea on him— 

J by GoOgJC 

Anginal rra 

If you won't take my 
offer you shall have a 
half -crown in any case ; 
but if you will— why, 
there's a sovereign in it 
for you, 1 ' 

The boy got up slowly, 
' You're a queer sort of 
chap," he said, " but you 
seem to be a pretty good 
sort of a chap. I think 

William Caine 


I'll earn my sovereign. Who are you, if I 
may ask ? " 

* + My name is Mendoza/' 

The boy's eyes lit up. 

" What ? The man who did that corking 
poster of George Dolman in 4 The Showman/ 
and that other for the last show at The 
Trafalgar, and that other for Jl 

"The same." 

The boy sat down again, " No," he said ; 
•' it's oftV J 

" Off ? n 

'* Yes. I thought you were just 
ati ordinary nobody. But your work's 
all over the shop. You can't have 
my face. What do you want it for, 
anyway ? A theatre poster ? IJ 

" No. A Sauce Advertisement*'* 

11 A Sauce Advertisement/' the boy 
echoed, with a savage laugh. " My 
face goes into no Sauce poster. Not 
much it doesn't. Least of all one 
by you." 

* Why, if I may ask, do you object 
particularly to me ? " 

,r Because* if you must know, any- 
thing that you do will be 

plastered on the hoard- -'Via 

jngs from one end of 
England to the other. 
Because, if you must 
know, I don't fancy 
giving my dear old 
father the satisfaction 
of knowing that his 
prophecy has come true. 
That, if you must know, 
is why/' 

He hunched himself 
up in his corner, thrust 
both his hands into his 
pockets, and fixed his 
eyes steadily on his toes. 
Thus he signified his 
permission to Mendoza 
to take himself off. 

Mendoza stayed where he was. After a 
time, he said : "I think 1 understand. You 
and your father have had a difference of 
opinion — shall we say, as to your choice of 
a career ? You wished to become — shall we 
say, an actor ? He wished you to embrace 
commerce. In the end you most properly 

he knew that his search was ended." 

sy Google 

Original from 


The Best Sauce 

followed your inclination, but not until the 
old gentleman (as became his character of 
angry parent) had promised you that you 
should starve in the gutter like a dog. Is 
that something like it ? Yes ? And now 
that he has proved accurate in his forecast, 
you cannot bring yourself to let him find it 
out, from seeing your pinched face on a 
hoarding. Is that it ? " 

The boy turned his head slowly and 
favoured Mendoza with a stare. " That's 
it," he said, admiringly. " That's just about 
it. Though, how the devil you knew I was 
an actor " 

44 You take enough interest in theatrical 
posters to remark by whom they axe drawn. 
This might lead one to suppose that you are 
a painter. Yet you remark with even more 
interest the name of the actor represented, 
the play which is advertised, and the theatre 
which has commissioned the drawing. This 
points to " 

" Well, you're right. But that doesn't 
make me any more ready to sit for you. It 
can't be done. Lord ! how he'd gloat." 

" I suppose," said Mendoza — remember 
that he was an artist suffering from the 
temptation of beholding the perfect model 
for a bit of work which he desired 
ardently to produce — " I suppose that two 
pounds " 

" Stow it," said the boy, roughly, " that's 
not fair." 

#l No," said Mendpza, " it isn't. AU right," 
he went on, with a sigh, " I'll say no more. 
Come and get some dinner. I'm paying." 

The boy got up again. " You are a good 
chap," he said ; " I only wish I could let you 
have your way. But I can't. And I wish 
I could refuse your dinner. But I can't." 

" That's all right," said Mendoza. " I 
began life myself by quarrelling with an 
uncle who wanted to put me into business. 
If I'd starved to death it would have given 
him enormous satisfaction. But I didn't. 
And you won't. And you needn't think 
that this is an act of charity I'm performing. 
Believe me, I very much want to improve 
our acquaintance. One doesn't often meet 
a man who'd rather keep his pride than 
fill his belly. Come along." 

III. • 

THEY found an eating-house in Holborn, 
and here Mr. Eric Brendon — such was 
the name (presumably the stage-name) of 
Mendoza's companion — stuffed himself to the 
tune of a good deal more than the half-crown 
which his host had offered to spend on his 
meal. This, however, was Mendoza's fault. 

" I am devilish hungry myself," he said, 
as they sat down, " and I am going to make 
my dinner here and now with you. What 
do you fancy ? " 

by Google 

" Look here," said Brendon. " You've 
promised me half a crown. Do you mind 
if I eat rather less than half a crown's worth 
now and have the change for my next meal ? 
If I do a few beef sandwiches and a slab 
of cake and a cup of cocoa now, it'll leave 

" Yes, I know it will," said Mendoza, 
" but that's not how it's going to be. Since 
you won't starve and sit to me at my studio 
to please me, you shall sit here and eat to 
please me. And it won't please me to see 
you swallowing sandwiches and cocoa while 
I tuck into a steak and. onions. I have at 
this moment a soul above sandwiches and 
cocoa, and I shall regard you as very dis- 
obliging if you force me to consume such 
things. So let's hear no more about that 
half-crown of mine. You shall have it. You 
shall have it. But not in the form of victuals. 
This feast is an extra. Come " — he took up 
the bill of fare — " what do you say to pea- 
soup, fried whiting, steak and onions, baked 
potatoes, an apple dumpling, and some 
cheese ? " 

Mr. Brendon laughed. " You are a good 
chap," he said. " Have it your own way. 
But don't think that you'll get me to sit 
to you." 

" My poor friend," said Mendoza, u as 
I've told you, when you've eaten this dinner 
you'll be of no manner of use to me. That's 
all forgotten. I've dismissed you from my 
mind as a model. I regard you now simply 
as a guest whom I wish to satisfy to the 
best of my ability." 

A minute later Mr. Brendon was supping 
pea-soup. The menu sketched by Mendoza 
was adopted without a change. Beer was 
added, and coffee and cigars. When all was 
over the change in Mr. Brendon was 

He was still thin in the face, but he was 
no longer haggard. The fever light in his 
sunken eyes was extinguished. They sparkled 
now with health and hope. His cheeks had 
a fine warm colour in them. His back had 
straightened. He sat up like a man. Con- 
fidence had, in his expression, taken the 
place of despair. Only in a young body 
could this miracle have manifested itself. 

Spontaneously he began to tell Mendoza 
the story of his life. It was extremely 
commonplace, and I don't propose to dwell 
on it. Like thousands of young men before 
him, he had quarrelled with his bread and 
butter, and counted it well lost if only he 
could live for Art. He had, however, found 
that to live for Art and to live by Art are 
two different things. One position on the 
stage he had. succeeded, so far, in obtaining. 
He had been entrusted with the duty of 
playing a member of a Duke's domestic 
staff, a member of a Coroner's iury, a 


William Caine 


member of a dancing club, a member of 
Parliament (in the great House of Commons 
Terrace Scene), and one or two other kinds 
of member in a touring melodrama. The 
life of this venture had ended with shocking 
suddenness in a South-Eastern suburb of 
London, and there had been no salary forth- 
coming. This had happened rather more 
than six weeks earlier than his encounter 
with Mendoza. Since then he had lived by 
pawning his possessions. He was now 
reduced to the few clothes in which he stood 
up. Meanwhile, his career as an actor had 
been in total abeyance. 

Mendoza heard him out gravely to the 
end. Then he said : " And now ? " 

Mr. Brendon laughed. " Why," he said, 
" now I *can go on a bit longer. If you 
hadn't turned up, I couldn't. That's about 
all. This meal'll last me a day or two, and 
something may happen. You never know 
your luck, do you ? " He smiled brightly 
upon his host and relit his cigar, which, 
during his story, he had allowed to go out. 
"Lord!" he said, "to feel full again!" 
Idly he drew } t6 himself a biscuit and began 
to munch it, J though not with any great 

" Well," Said Mfcfedozk, triio had meanwhile 
paid for their dinner, " I must be off." He 
rose and shook his guest by the hand. 
" Good luck to you," he said. " I wish you 
could have made tip your mind to sit to me, 
'but I h6rtbiir r your decision not to do it. I 
• must try ihd find someone else who hasn't 
,gdt r a-prophet'for< r a father: Here," he con- 
cluded, "put this 'in your pocket. It'll be 
useful in case your luck should think worse 
of it and ppstpone turning for a bit longer." 

With that he went abruptly away, leaving 
Mr. Brendon to stare with goggling eyes at 
the five-pound note which had been thrust 
into his hand. Before the boy had recovered 
from his astonishment, Mendoza was out of 
the restaurant and had leapt into a passing 
taxi-cab. By the time Brendon could reach 
the door the artist was well on his way to 
• IV. 

■ 'WO days later, towards evening, Mendoza 
I came back to his studio tired out and 
quite despondent. Though he had spent 
most of the intervening time in seeking his 
model, his search was still unrewarded. How 
many miles he had trudged through the 
slums of London it is impossible to say, but 
there had been enough of them to make him 
wish heartily that the proprietors of Sankey's 
Sauce had offered their commission to some- 
body other than himself. 

Mr. Brendon had made all other possible 
models impossible. Every face which Men- 
doza had encountered since his meeting with 
the boy in Lincoln's Inn Fields had failed 


to satisfy his fastidious taste, which, having 
once realized its ideal, was not to be put 
off with anything less perfect. Comparison 
had invariably proved fatal. Not one poor 
hungry devil upon whom Mendoza's eyes 
had fallen during the past two days had 
seemed other than commonplace. And 
Mendoza was quite prepared to abandon 
his project (and if necessary his two hundred 
guineas) rather than fit with a commonplace 
set of features the starving man of his 
picture-story. The great artist cannot come 
to terms with himself. 

Yet Mendoza ached and burned to achieve 
his picture-story. There was nothing else in 
all the wide world that he wanted to do. It was 
in him, and until it should be out of him he 
could know no rest, find no savour in life. 

And until he should be suited with a 
model, achievement was impossible. 

Almost anybody else would have invented 
a reasonably adequate starving man, inked 
in the pencil drawing, and dispatched it to 
the makers of Sankey's Sauce. Not Mendoza. 
He had conceived the idea of contrasting 
realism with broad farce, and if he could 
not get his realism, he might not have 
anything at all. 

And so it was in an evil temper that he 
returned to his studio about seven o'clock 
on his third day's search. 

" Curse that boy ! " he said, as he crawled 
up his stairs — for he was excessively tired. 
" Who is he to stand between the world and 
a masterpiece ? Who is he to deny a Men- 
doza the right to earn two hundred guineas ? 
A stage-struck fooH A tuppenny*. mime, 
whom no one will pay half a crown a week 
for carrying a banner ! Why should he have 
been given the only face in all London that 
appears to fit my conception ? Or if that 
was not to be avoided, why must he be 
endowed with a pride so stubborn and 
unusual ? It is an atrocious combination. 
Why couldn't that father of his have been 
carried off by apoplexy at the conclusion 
of their quarrel ? Then I could have had the 
son's face for the asking. But no ! The old 
man must needs continue to cumber the 
earth with his unnecessary presence, and in 
consequence here am I at a standstill. Oh ! 
why didn't I take to the drapery trade as a 
boy ? Drapers never meet with such 
disasters. At the very worst of it, they can 
only go bankrupt. And why did I need to 
be such a sentimental fool as to give the 
fellow all that money ? Nobody ever gave 
me five pounds when I was going about 
on my uppers." 

Here he opened the door of his flat. 

His man Anfitrion came to meet him. 

" There is a young man waiting to see 
Your Mercy," said Anfitrion. " He has been 
here since five. He savs that his business 

■_| 1 1 I :i I I I '_' I I 



The Best Sauce 

cannot be postponed. He is evidently 
destitute and he looks very ill. But he 
does not seem to be a beggar, for I offered 
him food — the poor devil ! — and he would 
have none of it. Indeed, he swore at me 
when I pressed him. I have put him in the 
lumber-room, where he has fallen asleep." 

Mendoza's eyes lit up. " Ah ! " he said. 
" Ah ! let's have a look at him." 

They went together to the lumber-room. 
Mendoza opened the door and peeped in 

Seated on the floor against a stack of 
frames and canvases, his mouth open and 
his head fallen back, snoring heavily, white 
as paper, clad in the scanty clothes of two 
days before, Mr. Eric Brendon slept the 
sleep of the utterly exhausted. 

Mendoza took three steps forward and 
shook his visitor gently by the shoulder. 
The boy opened his eyes, stared stupidly at 
the artist for a moment, and at last arrived 
at consciousness of his surroundings: 

" Hallo ! " he said, " here you are, then." 

" Yes," said Mendoza; '* get up and come 
into the studio." 

Brendon got up slowly on to his knees; 
then on to his feet. Then he swayed, and 
would have fallen had Mendoza not caught 
his arm. He. steadied himself and passed a 
hand across his eyes 

" It's all right," he said, " I was just a bit 
dizzy. It's gone now." 

Mendoza put an arm round him. " Come 
on," he said. " Can you walk ? " 

" Oh, yes, I can walk. If you don't mind 
lending an arm." 

" Anfitrion ! " said Mendoza. 

Together they got the boy into the studio 
and put him in a long chair. 

" Now," said Mendoza, " lie you still while 
my man gets you some soup. He won't be 
a minute." 

Anfitrion glided out of the room. 

" Soup ? " Brendon whispered. " Not for 
me. Not yet. After you've drawn me — yes. 
Not till then. No!"* 

" Nonsense," said Mendoza, " you'll do as 
you're told." In spite of himself his eyes 
gloated upon the fellow as they noted the 
excellent emaciation of his face, the admir- 
able sunkenness of his eyes. He was better, 
if possible, than he had been two days earlier. 

" But," he went on, " what the devil do 
you mean by getting yourself in this state ? 
Did you lose that money I gave you, 
then ? " 

Brendon shook his head. " No," he said ; 
" here it is," and he thrust a skinny hand 
inside his jacket and pulled out Mendoza's 
five-pound note. 

Mendoza glared at the thing. " You 
fool ! " he said. " What do you mean by 
it ? I didn't give you that to keep in your 

Digitized by dOOgle 

" I know you didn't. You gave it me to 
eat. Well, you see, I didn't eat it. I haven't 
eaten since that night. I guess I ought to 
be fit for you to draw now, eh ? You were 
prettv good to me, and I " 

" Dios ! " cried Mendoza, " you did that ! " 

" I wouldn't have come," Brendon went 
on,*^" for a bribe of fifty pounds, but there 
was no standing up against this fiver of 
yours. It was harder to go hungry with it 
in my pocket than when I'd nothing, but it 
had to be done. Since you wanted my mug 
to draw you had to have it. So here it is. 
I got your address in the telephone book — 
and my old father can gloat himself blind, 
and be hanged to him ! " 

Anfitrion entered, bearing a bowl that 

" Please send that chap away," whispered 
Brendon. " I can't stand the sight of his 
soup. Send him away and get busy. I'm 
pretty far through and I want to have this 
job done." 

" Two days ! " said Mendoza. " Two 
days without a bite, and a. five-pound note 
in his pocket ! But it is inconceivable ! 
And for me ! But it is epic ! Here is a 
sacrifice that may not be wasted ! " 

Already his board, with the pencilled 
picture-story pinned on it, was in his hand, 
and he had dragged up a stool beside the 
long chair. 

" Now ! " he snapped, " give me ten 
minutes — not more. Sit up. Anfitrion, help 
him to sit up. Prop him with cushions. 
Put that soup on the table where he can see 
it and smell it. And you, Brendon, fix your 
eyes on that bowl. Do you hear ? Snuff 
up its savour. It's torture, I know ; but 
it's necessary. Raise your chin. Open your 
mouth a little. So ! That's the ticket ! 
Hold that. Hold it, I say ! Hold it, damn 
you ! In ten minutes you shall be swallowing 
that stuff and a lot more. But if you fail 

me — now ' ' 


SO it came about that Mr. Brendon 's 
father knew himself to be a true pro- 
phet, and gloated accordingly. 
But Mr. Brendon had, by that time, been 
for some months a member of the company 
at the Trafalgar Theatre (thanks to a certain 
letter, signed Mendoza, which he had pre- 
sented to Teddy Scarsdale, its popular 
manager), and since it is also to be recorded 
that Mr. Brendon, having once got a fair 
start, rose rapidly to eminence in his pro- 
fession, I feel sure that nobody need grudge 
the old gentleman the fleeting satisfaction 
which he derived daily from a certain 
advertisement of Sankey's Sauce, until 
presently it became known to him that his 
undutiful son was making a capital thing 
of it on the linden stage. 




ITH some men eating 
is a favourite recrea- 
tion. Not so with 
Albert. To Albert 
meal -time was hell. Never could 
Albert have been described as 
a cheerful-looking card, for he 
was a pugilist, and countless blows in the 
face had left a look of melancholy stamped 
like a mask upon the parchment of his skin, 
but at meal-time he looked absolutely 
wrapped up in an overwhelming sorrow. 
And he had good reason to be, for Albert 
hated vegetables with a consuming passion, 
and his family were vegetarians. 

It was meal-time now, and Albert was 
done. The prongs of his fork had slipped 
in his effort to harpoon one last bean upon 
his plate, and the bean had skidded on to 
the floor. 

" Don't throw your food about," his sister 
had said. ** If you don't want it, there's 
others as do." 

Albert stood up. He looked at his mother 
and he looked at his sister. They took no 
notice of him whatever. Finally he turned 
his eyes and looked at his young lady. No 
light of understanding came into her eyes 
at all. He unknotted his muffler from about 
his neck and settled it anew under the collar 
of his coat, and finally he turned. 

" I'm goinV His voice had a peculiarly 
husky tone. " I got to be in the ring in 
'arf an hour." 

He had reached the door before the con- 
versation at the table so much as wavered 
in its course, and then as he was passing out 
a sudden eerie silence fell upon the room, 
and in that silence his young lady lifted up 
her Voice. 

" Albert," said she, " you 'aven't kissed me 

Albert gazed at her with all the concen- 
trated bitterness of a tormented soul. 

'• No," he said at last, " I know I 'aven't. 
I've got my mouth full." 

Now, had there been anybody at the table 
capable of sympathy with Albert, they would 
have thought that a very witty answer. 

THE man that he fought that night held 
Albert cheaply. He knew, of course, 
that his fight with Albert was merely a 
first step up the ladder. Every fellow round 

Digitized by G< 

Hylton Cleaver 



about a hundred and fifty pounds who took 
up boxing to make money at it had to beat 
Albert for a start ; and they always did beat 
Albert. Albert was a man who made his 
profit by taking the loser's end of the purse. 
When a fight had to be arranged with 
Albert, he used to look up with a melancholy 
air and say, " What's the loser get ? " That 
was about the only thing that mattered 
much to Albert. If Albert ever won, people 
used to think it was a frame-up. 

He fought to-night as he always fought. 
He did not go down until he couldn't help 
it, and then he went down for good, and 
they picked him up as if it were all a matter 
of course, and gave him the loser's end and 
nodded good night to him ; and then they 
said, " Don't forget next Saturday night," 
and Albert was alone in a passage. 

He went out into the street, and started 
slowly home along the High Road, but he 
did not go far. He came to a spot from which 
one could see across the way the brilliant 
lights of an arcade, wherein, under the title 
" Joyland," the business of telling people 
their weights and showing them Paris life 
through binoculars was carried on ; and then 
he shyly kicked one foot against the other, 
and, moving more slowly still, he went across 
and leaned in a thoughtful attitude against 
the entrance, and at last he looked up, and 
io ! the girl who told weights was looking 

" 'Ave you been fighting ? " 

He jerked his head. 

" Did you get beat ? " 

He admitted it with a nod. 

" It seems a shame," said she, " to always 
get beat. I don't like fellows to figh*, 
myself, but if they must fight, then I like 

'em to win." 

Ungmal from 



The Loser's End 

A shadow of shame passed over Albert's 
face and was gone. 

She came and stood beside him, and a 
little of that seemed to make all the differ- 
ence. In less than a minute Albert was 
unburdening his soul. 

" There's something wrong," he was saying, 
huskily. " I didn't ought to get beat the 
way I do. I seem to be able to box 'em, 
but I ain't got no stamina, that's what it is. 
They wear me down." He gave a sudden 
tremble of despair. " It's all them bloomin' 
veg'ables ! Before my old man died I used 
to be able to get a bit o' meat, in secret like, 
before a fight. It's different now. The 
money won't go round." 

He made a pathetic gesture with his hands. 
Then he noticed that she had turned to- 
wards him and was standing with hands 
upon her hips mnd head uptilted. 

" You ought to get out o' that home. It 
ain't the sort of place you ought to be in." 
His home might have been a public-house. 
He found she was leaning closer to him. 
She was looking into his eyes now with a 
kind of challenging stare. 

" You ought to make 'em understand 
that if you got to fight you got to have 
meat. A little of what you fancy ought to 
be on your plate o' nights, done round with 
gravy. I can't seem to follow the way they 
go on with you. If I were in that 'ouse I'd 
swing 'em all round on the end of a string, 
I would, straight. Why don't you wave 'em 
a glad good-bye and go and live somewhere 
else ? " 

" It takes all the money I get to keep the 
'ome together," said Albert, in a hollow tone. 
" 1 can't give 'em money for grub at 'ome 
and then go out for a meal in a chop-'ouse." 

He began to spread his hands before him 
hopelessly. " I 'ate all them there vege- 
tables like I 'ate rats, but if 1 tell 'em so 
they cut up something awful. My old ma, 
it's a kind of religion with 'er — and there's 
my young lady." 

The girl turned sharply towards him. 
" You got a young lady ? " 

He jerked his head. It was a difficult 
thing to explain. Albert's young lady had 
grown upon him. He was not at all sure 
when he had first begun to notice her, or 
when he had come to understand that he 
and she were walking out. It all seemed 
part of the constitution of his home, a com- 
bine of his women-folk against him. He 
wanted to point this out to the girl beside 
him, but he did not know how to begin. He 
felt that a fellow who had a young lady and 
did not know why he had would seem to 
anyone who did not understand the way of 
his life an unusual sort of idiot. 

" You got a young lady," said the girl, in 
a slow, small voice, " and she never sees 

that you have what you want to eat ? Does 
she eat vegetables ? " 

He nodd'fcd mournfully. 

" Never a bit of 'addock, or nothing ? " 

" She goes round with an orphanage- box, 
collecting," said Albert, quite inconsequently. 

" Collecting ? What for ? " 

" For 'erself," said Albert. " She gets a 
bit, too." 

He paused. There seemed very little else 
to say. He had unburdened his soul and 
he felt better. But he did not feel altogether 
easy in his mind about his own young lady. 
At last he heaved a sigh. 

"J'll be gettin' along," said he. He 
nodded his head. He was gone. 

The girl turned to a friend and pointed 
after him. 

" He's the only one who brings home 
anything regular," said she. " He keeps his 
mother and his sister, and he's got a young 
lady what goes round with a box. A fellow 
like that ought to be a kind of domestic pet 
in a 'ouse. They never so much as give him 
a bit of meat for his supper." Her voice 
began to tremble with indignation. " Never 
so much as a bit of 'addock for his tea." 

There was a moment's silencfe. -Her friend 
had been looking at her with intense sus- 
picion, and now she drew back with a giggle, 
and gave her a sudden graceful push on to 
the kerb. 

. " Oh, go on, Alice ! " said she. " You are 
.all right." 

The days that followed were, for Albert, 
full of vexation. Life was an everlasting 
struggle between his patience and his hunger. 
There came one day when he pushed his 
plate away from him in a kind of dull despair. 
He said, ' € I can't eat it. Saturday night 
I've got to fight Bob Hudson, and 1 got to 
be strong. If you want the money to live 
with, gimme, something to eat." 

It was not a threat ; it was something of 
an appeal. He looked from one to the other 
of them patiently, and he saw them sit back 
in turn and tighten their lips, and finally 
. look around as if in doubt as to who should 
speak first ; and then his sister made a 
gesticulation towards him across the table. 

" Something to eat ? " she said. She 
looked half paralyzed with astonishment. 
" Something to eat ? What's good enough 
for us is good enough for you, isn't it ? 
What d'you mean — something to eat ? " 

" I want a bit of flesh and blood," barked 

There was a moment's absolute silence, 
and at last there sounded upon the stillness 
of the room a shrill sound of lament. 

" 'E's goin' to do a murder, that's what 
'e means 1 'E's goin' to do a murder ! " 

It was the voice of his mother. She was 
looking at him wanly, her mouth a little 


Hylton Cleaver 

agape, just as though he had knocked all 
the breath out of her body and had left her 
dizzy- His sister waved at him with nasty 
witch-like hands. 

" Look what 
you've done to 
mother! She's 
going to cry ! 
Look what you've 
been and done. 
What d'you mean, 
I'd like to know ? 
Flesh and blood ! " 

" I want it to 
eat," said Albert, 
bitterly, ** not to 
*andle. I want to 
be able to fight 
to win. My blood's 
all turnin' to 
water. I don't 
seem to 'ave no 
strength, I'm 
getting old. It's 
because o' them 
bloom in' vege- 
tables. I 'ate 'em. 
Slow poison they 
are/ 1 

He pushed his 
plate farther away 
still, with a fierce, 
defiant gesture, 
He caught his 
young lady's eye, 
Her hair was 
dotted with curl- 
ing pins and drawn 
back flatly across 
her narrow head, 
He wanted to 
say, M Why don't 
you do your 'air 
fuzzy ? " But his 
young lady got in 
first. She said :— 

11 Don't take no 
notice of 'im, ma. 
Just go on eatin'. 
Don't take no 
notice of 'im/' 

Albert stood up, 

M Drivin' the 
van," said he, 
11 brings in just 
thirty bob a week, 
i got to fight, or 
we all goes under. 

If you don't want to go under, 'elp me to 
light. For the love of Gawd, gimme some- 
thin* good to eat," 

There was a sudden yelp like the cry of a 
frightened puppy. Albert lifted his head. 
His mother had clapped her hands to her 

heart and was bursting 
his sister was wrapping 
excitedly about her and 

don't like fellows to fight/ said 
they must fight, then I like 'em 

by L^OOgle 


into tears, and 
long thin arms 
bobbing her up 
and down on her 
chair. His young 
lady turned and 
faced him* 

" You wicked 
man," said she, 
"look what you've 
done ! Oh, you 
wicked, wicked 
man, look what 
you've been and 
done to raa ! ,p 

There was sud- 
den unreasonable 
commotion. I n 
the midst of it 
Albert turned and 
went, and all the 
time he was try- 
ing impatiently to 
find his cap there 
fell upon his ears 
a sobbing and 
moaning like the 
rise and fall of 
the wind across 
the waste. 

It was awful ; 
indeed, when the 
morning came and 
breakfast was on 
the table, it 
seemed to Albert 
better, whatever 
happened, to eat 
'what was on his 

At the end of 

the week he 

fought, and was 

beaten again. This 

time he meant to 

go resolutely 

home. He passed 

the arcade with a 

steady tread and 

his eyes averted, 

but only to meet 

defeat, Alice came 

out of a shop with 

a handful of 

change jingling in 

her hand, and 

turned and waited 

for him. So he 

stopped, and they looked at one another. 

,H Did you get beat ? " 

He admitted it miserably, and he saw her 

purse her lips and begin to nod her head, 

but her eyes were set half -absently towards 

a distant omnibus, 

unyinai from 


the girl, 'but 

* »t 
to win* 


The Loser's End 

•* You used to win once, didn't you ? " 

" I could win now if I were strong enough." 
He began to explain anew. " There was one 
young fellow who didn't know if he could 
beat me or not, and they wanted me to lay 
down to 'im." He lifted his hand and made 
a sweeping gesture, as if to banish temptation 
from his side. 

" I says, ' No, I fight to win. It ain't too 
easy for me to get fights nowadays,' I says, 
' but I gets 'em because I fights square/ 
So," he added, with a patient sort of sniff, 
" the fight was off. They wouldn't risk it. 
He fought another fellow instead — a proper 
old 'un. 'E beat 'im all right. And now 
that young fellow's doin' well. 'E's climbed 
right up and 'is money's good. But 'e's 
never fought me yet, and I've a kind of idea 
'e doesn't want to. I've a notion 'e's a boy 
I might be able to beat. 'E's just the kind 
I like. Fights open, 'e does. 'Its 'ard, but 
fights open." 

He braced his shoulders abruptly. " I 
wanted to tell you that," said he, " because 
they've fixed us up at last. We go ten 
rounds on Monday week, 'im and me. And 
if I could beat 'im now after 'e's beaten all 
the others, I'd sort o' wipe out a lot of 
what's been 'appening. It might be a kind 
of second lease o' life to me." He stopped. 
" I don't know what'U 'appen," he added. 
" I got a bit of a cold " 

The girl was looking up at him, and he 
suddenly caught her eye. She was looking 
at him in a very peculiar sort of way. It 
struck him that it was a kind of soft look. 
After a while she said, " I say — if you're a 
bit lonely — you ain't got much in common 
with them there — I'm a bit lonely too. 
What about it one night ? Couldn't we go 
to the pictures, eh ? " 

He looked at her quaintly, a little like a 

" I got a young lady," he said, at last. 

" There wouldn't be no 'arm." 

He didn't answer. 

" I get off Tuesdays/' Alice told him, after 
a moment. 

Albert began to totter on the brink. All 
that she had said was true. There was a 
little time of waiting. " There wouldn't be 
no 'arm, would there ? " he said at last. 
" No, I'm blowed if there would I Say 

HE did not see Alice at first, because she 
was looking like a chrysalis. Indeed, 
it was only when his eyes had found 
their way all the way up a vast red overcoat 
that covered her from her toes to the tip of 
her nose that he saw her blue eyes looking 
at him pertly over the top of her turned-up 
collar. And then he smiled at her. 

" I want to go home a minute," she said. 

Digitized by L^OOQle 

" There's something I've forgotten. You 
don't mind coming along ? It ain't very 
far." / 

He went obediently, with his hands in 
his pockets, and an occasional rasping cough ; 
and once she looked up at him, and thought 
he looked drawn with hunger. One might 
have supposed then that she stepped out 
a little quicker, until at the gate of a small 
house in a dark, deserted road she stopped 
and looked at him. 

" Come in and wait. I may be a minute 
or two. Don't stand about 'ere. You got 
a cold." She paused. " I got a room here." 

For the space of a minute they looked one 
:at the other, and then she made a gesture of 

" Oh, I know it ain't a respectable thfng 
to do. That don't matter. Nobody minds 
'ere. I want you to come in. Come on, 

Albert followed her faithfully up the stair- 
case and they came to a third -floor room. 
She opened the door and turned on the gas, 
and then she took off her hat and coat, 
patted her hair once with her hand, and 
turned to look at him. 

Albert was standing upon the threshold of 
the room and looking positively stricken. 
His arms were hanging limply by his side, 
his lower jaw had dropped. There in the 
centre of the room he beheld a table, and 
the table was set with a cloth. It bore a 
bottle of beer. It bore cheese and pickles. 
It bore a great new crusty. loaf of bread. 

He turned like a man who feels himself 
going blind, and stared perplexedly into a 
corner of the room, where Alice had moved 
to an oil-stove and was bending over a frying- 
pan. " He saw her slap something red and 
juicy into that pan. He suddenly caught a 
sniff of onions. She had secured a fork, and 
she was poking and prodding with it busily. 

He stood there trying with all his might 
to speak. Once he opened his mouth and 
closed it again. At last he spoke, and his 
husky voice was broken. He said, " A bit 
o' steak — and onions ! " 

He made no movement at all. He just 
stood there stiffly, but it seemed to Albert 
as if the walls of the room were closing in 
about him. He was as a little child. She 
took him with a quick, capable hand and 
set him down, and coming very close beside 
him she began to lift the contents of the 
frying-pan on to his plate without a word, 
and then she poured the gravy round it, and 
gave him a pat on the back, and said, " I 
want you to eat it while it's 'ot." 

She was standing very still behind him, 
and at last something wet dropped from her 
cheek and fell upon her hand. 

He made no move. He sat there woodenly 
with his two hands e^pping one at the other 

Gill *_?T 1 1 v 


Hylton Cleaver 


upon his lap. She took off his cap and put 
it aside upon a chair. Then out of the 
corner of his eye he saw her cutting bread. 
She was even bringing potatoes, but he 
could not begin . He heard her say, almost 
pleadingly, " Stick your fork in it, Albert/' 

At last something 
seemed to break inside 
him, and he got up with a 
start and began to undo 
his muffler. He meant 
real business. There was 
one more pause. Then 
he had given a sort of 
broken grunt and had 
fallen to, and now that 
the spell was broken he 
ate with a kind of 
sa v agery . On 1 y som e- 
times did he remember 
that she was there, and 
at such times he looked 
up and swallowed once 
or twice, and said at 
last : — 

" You *ave some, 
on, Alice ! " 

She smijedat him. 
was great. 

Lastly, he 
and wiped 
his mouth, 
then turned 
and faced 
her, and, 
now that 
he could 
pro perly 
control his 
thoughts, he 
looked sud- 
denly wooden again. 

" I didn't ought 
*ave 'ad it/' he said. 
"It was your supper. 
Now IVe ate it/* 

"It was yours. I 
meant it for you, 1 ' 

11 You can't afford to 
give me meat," he said. 
" I didn't ought to 
have " 

" It's a kind of invest- 
ment/* she explained. 
11 I've got the money all 
right, and I'm putting it 

into something good, I'm putting it into 
you. I want you to win — on Tuesday. It 
may mean a lot you don't think about. But 
you'll 'ave to trust a woman. I don't like 
a fellow to fight, but if 'e must fight I 
like 'im to win. That's what it is." 

He looked at her steadily. 

** Every evening till Tuesday/' said she, 

" At last he spoke, and his 
broken. * A bit o 

voice was 

—and onions I 

w I want you to come in J ere and *ave a bit 
o' supper along o J me. I ain't doin J it all 
for nothing. It's just a kind of investment," 
Albert would have pleaded with her, but 
she interrupted. 

11 I'll be paid back. You ar'n't goin 1 to 
take my money. Don't 
worry, I'll be paid 

She came a little closer 
and laid her hands upon 
his shoulder, 

" I want you to beat 
him, Albert. I want you 
to win," 

He took a quick step 
forward and made as if 
to clutch her. He said, 
'■ Alice I JJ 

She drew back, 
" Don't ! " she said. 
" I wouldn't — not yet, 

ALBERT came to be 
led by the hand, 
and it was a week 
of wonder. For seven 
consecutive days Alice 
primed him with strong 
meats for his fight, and 
every evening when they 
had done she said, ' It's 
just a kind of invest, 
ment. If vou only beat 
■im, Albert, it'll be like 
putting money into an 
automatic machine atid 
making the bell ring," 

He used to look up at 
her sideways with sudden 
gravity, and she saw that 
he understood. 

So came the last night, 
and when the plates had 
been cleared away she 
went with him down the 
stairway and through the 
chill darkness of the hall 
to the door. To-morrow 
his chance was to come. 
He jerked his head as he 
said good-bye, then he 
left her side and started 
towards the gate, and 
there outside he saw 
something barring his way — shadows that 
he seemed to recognize, tangible ghosts. 
They moved when they saw him and 
seemed to draw closer together, and then 
they came through the gate and started up 
the steps, and he stopped and watched them 
bitterly. It had come. They were his 
womenfolk* He felt his sinews tightening 





The Loser's End 

within him as if in some foreboding; That 
moment his sister moved out and halted, 
and flung out her hand towards him like 
somebody on a melodramatic poster- The 
girl with the narrow head, his own young 
lady, began to hiss abuse at him from 
between clenched teeth. They were closing 
in. He turned, and Alice stood calmly in 
the doorway, watching them as they came, 
They swept round her in a semicircle and 
began to threaten. Then they were laying 
hands upon her. He saw his mother begin 
to flap her arms like a penguin, while his 
sister commenced to shake Alice by the 
shoulder. That was enough. He was in 
amongst them with a stride and had begun 
to force them back. He tried with all his 
might to close their mouths, but he could 
not quite manage it. As he struggled with 
them he caught cruel snatches of venom. 

" We know — we've 'card 
the talk— now we've fol- 
lowed 4m 'ere, A thing 
like you — any fellows girl 
for the price of a pair of 
stockings ! I'll get you 
turned out of *ere this 
night, that I will ! — out 
'ere into the streets where 
you belong ! " 

"I'm 'is young lady/' 
another voice was pro- 
claiming* " You'd take a 
man from me, would you ? 
— a painted thing like you, 
out of a arcade ! M 

He had forced 
them back to the 
gate and he 
was threatening 
them wildly. It 
was no use. They 
were shouting 
out her name, 

11 Alice York— 
that's who you 
are, Alice York. 
We know you/' 

They were 
clawing at him 
in despair. He 
only once turned 
to look. Alice 
was standing in 
the doorway, her 
white blouse 
strangely still, 
her pale face set 
and deliberate in 

the faint light of the ball. She had never 
moved. As he looked back she waved her 
hand to him once. He would not see her 
again until he had fought Young Marshall. 
He saw her wave, that was alL Then he 

Digitized by LiOOglC 

was hemmed in by his womenfolk. But he 
had understood. He was out in the street 
now, and he faced them like a man who 
means to take revenge, 

" No more/* he said. " No more. 1 warn 
you, I'll choke you — dead ! " 

NEVER before had Albert worried so. He 
sat in his corner with his gloved hands 
resting upon his lap and his drawn face 
turned with a kind of patient watchfulness 
towards the referee. Once he looked towards 
Young Marshall, who had scored eleven 
consecutive victories in ten-round fights. 
Once he licked his lips. A lean man in a 
rat-bitten sweater tendered a bottle towards 
him, but Albert shook his head. Instead 
he beat a little tattoo upon his knees with 
his gloves and began to tap his feet upon 
the boards of the ring ; and then at last he 

looked up once 
again and saw 
that they were 
ready. The time- 
keeper had his 
hand upraised 
and his head 
bent over his 
watch. The Jean 
man put down 
his bottle and 
loosened Albert's 
cloak. Then it 
was time and 
Albert stood up. 
In a bound 
Young Marshall 
was across the 
ring and had 
taken his hand ; 
before he was 
properly shaped 
the fight had 
begun and blows 
were landing 
everywhere and 
stinging Albert 
to action. The 
rush of it all 
took him for a 
moment una- 
wares. Then, 
while these hurri- 
cane blows were 
rocking him from 
side to side, clear- 
ness of vision 
began to come 
to him, and he 
started to fight Young Marshall back. He did 
it classically with nothing but his left, and he 
did it viciously with all the power he knew, 
and after a little while the steady punching 
from the shoulder be^an to take eflect, and 


Albert sat in his comer and a lean man tendered 
a bottle towards him, but he shook his head." 


Young Marshall 
went back to- 
wards the centre 
of the ring, 
1 1 awn into a 
crouch and 
making evil faces 
as he threatened 
first with his 
right and then 
with his 1 e f t. 
Finally he sprang 
in with remark- 
able swiftness. 
Albert had 
covered up his 
vital spots, and 
now he dropped 
his head so that 
his eyes were 
looking up from 
under bending 
brows, and be- 
gan to battle 
with him, Mar- 
shall slipped in- 
to a clinch, and 
Albert freed 
himself without 
exertion, and 
put out his left 
hand with a half* 
arm jolt into the 

weak spot just under Marsh all's ribs, and 
Marshall went back and struck a new* pose, 
with lifted eyebrows and the corners of his 
mouth, drawn down, and his gloves alter- 
nately slapping his thighs and sparring up 
to Albert, 

He was a man who fought to order. 
Already he wanted his seconds to tell him 
what t o d o. A I bert was pu z zling him. Here 
was a man who had that sort of hard-bitten 
face that never looks hot, whose jolting left 
hand carried a loaded punch, Then, as he 
made no definite attack, Albert bestirred 
himself. Twice he came in and seemed to 
be feeling for his distance. Twice Marshall 
moved to avoid a blow, and at last, when he 
was least expecting it, Albert jumped right 
in with his left as stiff as a rod and struck 
him immediately under the nose. 

He sprang round the ring like an excited 
cat, Albert slipped this way and that with- 
out undue exertion and tried to corner him. 
It was no use. Marshall was too fantastic. 
Then, as he dropped his hands just for a 
moment Marshall leapt upon him and was 
through his guard ; four, five, six blows 
rattled his jaw ; his head rocked dizzily 
from side to side before the onslaught. The 
bell rang, He was saved. 

Then Young Marshall had his instructions. 
From that time on he never let up. He was 

Digitized byLrt 

He sprang round the ring like an excited cat* 

him. It 

Albert tried to 

was no use* 

fit, and he set his own pace. He was all 
round Albert and in and out, and his blows 
met Albert's body with a zip that was full 
of life, For a little while Albert fought 
well, He never wavered. He stood up 
patiently to the storm, and every time 
Marshall came in anew his left went out 
and his right came up to guard ; sometimes 
he scored* But he began in a little while 
to see that he was losing ground. He was 
making no kind of impression at alh His 
w r ay of fighting was merely a sturdy self- 
defence. Marshall had speed and he had 
all kinds of enthusiasm. He must warm to 
his work, ■ *" 

Whenever he could he increased his speed. 
He started to cross with his right as Marshall 
jumped in. He found himself once against 
the ropes, and for half a minute he joined in 
recklessly and gave punch for punch with 
either hand, He saw blood coming from 
Marshall's mouth, and it seemed to encourage 
him. He kept the same old style, but he 
sparred with greater speed betw T een the rallies* 
He began to lead tentatively. Marshall had 
rather a longer reach, and it was trouble- 
some, but he tried not to notice it ; his 
heart was higher than ever before. He knew 
this because he w T as beginning to enjoy the 
fight. There was a difference* Always before 
he had fought when he was hungry. 



The Loser's End 

Once, in an interval between the rounds, 
he remembered how he was primed with 
strong meat, and it gave him tremendous 
confidence. It was the idea that he had not 
been trained on vegetables that mattered. 
He had something up his sleeve. Every 
round now he was growing stronger, instead 
of weaker. 

He began now to set his teeth. The old 
look of patient gloom began to leave his 
countenance. His face changed into that 
of a dour, determined fighter. His eyes 
grew bright. It was not now only a matter 
of fighting Marshall back. He was setting 
his own pace. He was moving after that 
evil young man wherever he went, and 
plugging in his left without cessation. 

Marshall dodged and danced and made 
grimaces, but Albert was the man who got 
there. He was wiping out the points that 
Marshall had scored in the early rounds, and 
he was coming out on top. He began to use 
more of his right, for he found that Marshall 
left his chin open every time he jumped. He 
quickened up his left and feinted more 
cleverly with his leads. 

Gradually he began to force Young Mar- 
shall into a desperate fight. . He would not 
let him get away. He moved this way and 
that across his front and kept on smiting. 
When Marshall ducked he straightened him 
with an upper-cut. When he fell into a 
clinch, Albert got his own gloves inside and 
dug him violently in the ribs with either 
hand until he broke, and Marshall grew 
angry. His seconds were scolding him un- 
feelingly between the rounds ; they were 
jeering at his style. They said he was being 
beaten by some old apple- woman. That 
was the way they got the best out of him. 
The eighth round came, and he chose that 
to show his worth. 

"•I'll set about 'im 'ere and now," he 
announced between his broken teeth. " This'll 
be the one where he stretches out. You want 
to watch this." 

He went in with a perfectly villainous 
crouch and his eyes agleam, and Albert saw 
him baring his teeth. He got ready. Then 
they had clashed and Albert was praying for 
strength. He met him with head down, his 
shoulders curved, and he struck out with all 
his might in self-defence. 

Marshall was too alive. It was the best 
sort of all-round exhibition Marshall knew 
how to give, and Albert began to weaken. 
It seemed that his gloves were growing heavy. 
He didn't seem able to see so well. It was 
hard to keep his balance. He had lost his 
speed. Once a blow caught him under the 
heart and he gave a sob. He was bleeding 
more than he knew ; his breath was coming 
in jerks ; he kept on telling himself it was 
the eighth round now ; only two more to 

by Google 

go. If he could last it out, he might possibly 
win on points. 

Then -Marshall found his real opening, and 
his right came over with a determined 
thump and sent Albert toppling sideways. 
There was a gradual clamour rising all round 
the ringp; he had heard occasional bursts of 
apiplause before, but now people would 
simply not keep quiet. He heard them, and 
knew that it meant they thought he was 
going out. He fell on to his knees and 
slithered on to his face. He heard the 
referee telling Marshall to stand right back. 

And whilst he lay sobbing for breath he 
seemed to remember by degrees all those 
delectable slabs of meat that had lain in the 
frying-pan and sizzled, and he knew that he 
had had all those steaks to eat and that they 
must have done him good. He tried to say 
to himself, " I can't be done. I'm not what 
I used to be. I'm full of meat." Then 
with a sort of set despair he got to his feet 
and looked slowly round for Marshall. 

Marshall was shaping into a new sort of 
pose and stretching out his left hand, as 
though to measure the distance that he had 
to strike, and now as he Saw, him move 
Albert grew furiously angry. He summoned 
from every sinew in his frame ell the atoms 
of strength that vegetables had dissipated, 
and he got them together into his right arm, 
and stood ready. Marshall came in with a 
pretty step-dance, feinted, and let go, and, 
timing things to perfection, Albert flung out 
his great blow at the selfsame moment. It 
was all just a question of timing, and Albert 
won by the fraction of difference in his 
speed. His blow got home with a crack as 
it swerved up under Young Marshall's chin* 
and Marshall's own blow finished in mid-air. 
The house rose in an uproar, and Marshall 
stayed for one moment stiffly upon his heels, 
then fell like a log right on to the back of 
his head and never moved. 

Albert drew back towards the ropes in 
a dazed, peculiar delight. His eyes were 
glazed and he could not properly see ; but 
he could hear the noise, and after a little 
while a cloak fell round his shoulders. The 
lean man in the rat-bitten sweater clasped 
an arm round his waist. 

" So 'elp me, Albert, you've beat 'im 
proper ! Strike me pink, if you ain't ! " 

Albert looked at him quaintly. He said : — 

" He's out, is 'e ? " almost as if he didn't 
understand. But he wasn't a bit surprised. 
He looked, if anything, just as though he 
"had done it deliberately. That was what 
puzzled people most. 

HE came to the door of his house with 
Alice, and he turned the handle and 
opened it. There was a queer, for- 
bidding hush along the dingy passage, and 


Hykon Cleaver 


Albert's blow got home with a crack/* 

lie led the way as if his own footfall would 
make Mm jump ; but Alice was beside him, 
and they came to the parlour door and 
opened that. 

Albert's womenfolk sat there all round the 
table just like three witches, and Alice went 
in and stood by Albert's side before they 
looked up and noticed it. So there was one 
brief moment of most utter silence, and then 
a stir. 

Albert's sister moved first. She got up 
and came towards them with a look of busi- 
ness, and Albert thrust out his hand and 
toppled her back ; then he glanced once at 
Alice, and AJice hfted her chin a little and 

"I've something to say. You've made 
your own man's life a misery, and he's one 
of the best who ever stepped* All this week 
he's been havin J supper with me, and he's 
had meat and a glass of beer. To-night he's 
won a fight, and if I know anything about it 
he won't be getting the loser's end of the 
purse much more* The price of his hire's 
gone up, and it won't be yours to share* 
I'm taking 1m out of this ; me and Albert's 
going to get married." 

Albert's mother threw up her hands and 

Digitized by O* 

began to slide 
■under the table 
with a face like an 
underdone puff. 
Nobody moved 
towards her, 

Alice held them 
with eyes like 
steel, and she also 
held Albert's arm, 
" I'm taking 
care of Albert 
after this/' said 
she* M 1 thought 
you'd like to 
know T . You'll need 
to Jook after your- 
selves. Women 
like you don't 
want supporting. 
You only want 
holding under. 
I've always had 
to work and I J m 
going to go on 
working, Albert 
ain't going to keep 
me in luxury*' 111 
be doing my bit, 
It's time you 
worked as well." 

She turned to 
Albert's sister, 

" You can find 
work/' said she, 
k sticking labels 
aside of jam-jars/ 1 Then she looked scorn- 
fully towards Albert's young lady. "You'd 
better take in washing, my dear/* At last 
she moved to Albert's mother, with Albert 
in close attendance at her side. 

" I'm sorry for you/' said she. " We ain't 
goin 1 to let you starve* Albert and me'll 
see you *ave vegetables as long as you like 
'em on the business end of a fork, and you'll 
go on living 'ere* You'll get a bit o' money 
from us each week to keep you*" 
She nodded her head abruptly. 
" I've always J ad to work/' she said again, 
" I managed to save a bit, and I put that 
into something good, and I've got it all 
back with interest/ 1 

She looked at each of them in turn with a 
challenging eye, and then she turned to 
Albert and offered him a slow, sweet smile, 

11 Come on, Albert, we'll be getting along. 
They've been living on the loser's end for 
all this while, and now that they've got it 
to keep they don't seem to even know r it by 
Albert looked at them patiently. 
- * You want to put something under ma/* 
said he, " She'll bump *erself something 
awful in a iTrinotej"f rorn 




Here is a new puzzle that is interesting me very 
much at the time of writing, and I have not yet got 
quite to the bottom of the mystery of the general 
solution. It reminds one, though it is really very 
different, of the classical problem by Bachet concerning 

13 ineKes* 

1 c 


1 3 1 6 2. 

the weight that was broken in pieces which would 
then allow of any weight in pounds being determined 
from one pound up to the total weight of all the 
pieces. In the present case a man has a yardstick 
from which three inches have been broken off, so that 
it is only 3$ inches in length. Some of the graduation 
marks are also obliterated, so that only eight of these 
marks are legible ; yet he is able to measure any given 
number of inches from 1 inch up to 33 inches. Where 
are these marks placed ? There are two answers 
Can you find one of them ? 

As an example, I give in the illustration the case of 
a 13-inch rod with four markings. If I want to 
measure 4 inches, I take 1 and 3 ; for 8 inches, 6 and 
2 ; for 10 inches, 3, 1, and 6 ; and so on. Of course, 
the exact measure must be taken at once on the rod ; 
otherwise the single mark of 1 inch repeated a sufficient 
number of times would measure any length, which 
would make the puzzle absurd ! 

In " Letter Pairs " (No. 502) we sought those 
English words in which every letter used appears in 
pairs, and we gave STEPPEST and REAPPEAR as 
eight-letter examples. A correspondent has since 
sent me ARRAIGNING and INTESTINES, which 
have ten letters each and therefore beat my record. 
Now let us see whether the following can be beaten. 
There is an English word that contains five vowels in 
succession. What is it ? All the voweb are together, 
with no consonant between, but, of course, the vowels 
are not all different. 

This is a puzzle propounded many years ago by the 
late Sam Loyd. My readers will find it an attractive 
investigation, and the conditions are very simple. 
The puzzle game is played between two persons, with 
a single die, and the object is to see who can score 
twenty-five first, or compel his opponent to go beyond 
that point. The first player starts by calling out any 

number from 1 to 6. 
Suppose he commenced 
by calling 5, the second 
player then throws the 
die. Say 3 turns up, as 
in the illustration : the 
score adds up 8. The 
die is no longer thrown 
now ; the element of 
calculation begins. The 
first player now rolls the 


die over, giving it merely a quarter turn, so as to select 
one of the four sides, r, 2, 5, or 6. Suppose he took 6, 
the score would then be 14. The next player turns up 
4, making the score 18 ; the other player turns up 6, 
carrying the total to 24, which will win, as his op- 
ponent cannot make 25 (the 1 being at the bottom) and 
is compelled to go beyond that figure. What is the best 
number to call first, and why is it the best number ? 

Solutions to Laat Month's Puzzles. 


If we exchange a White B running on black with a 
Black B running on white we find the first condition 
that I gave is fulfilled but the second condition is 
broken. But if we exchange a White B running on 
white with a Black B running on black, both con- 
ditions are complied with. Now, which White B can 
we exchange ? It cannot be either of those on Q 5, 
K B 4, or Q 3, because in every case the White K 
would be left in check, and this would be fatal to any 
solution in two moves. It cannot be one of those at 
Q 7 or K 8 because both will be found necessary to a 
mating solution, since the remainrrig^ one would be 
undefended. It must be the B at Q Kt 5." If we 
exchange it with the Black B on Q B 4, then the 
position is possible and 1. B takes B (Kt. 3), check, 
1. B to B ? ; 2. B takes B, mate. It will be found that 
no other Black B can be exchanged with the White 
one to give mate in two moves. Of course, an exchange 
with Black's B at Q Kt 3 would be mate, so it could 
not be White's turn to play ! I have written out a 
complete game (the absurdity of the pfay has nothing 
to do with t the question) leading up* to the revised 
position, so the question of possibility is noi at all in 

doubt. ;" 


Binks was good at bookkeeping. Is there any ether 
word in our language having, like this one, three 
repeated letters in immediate succession ? 

515.-A PEG 

The diagram 
shows how to 
place the pegs. 
The three removed 
from the holes bear- 
ing a cross are re- 
placed in the top 
left • hand corner. 
The ten pegs new 
form five rows with 
four pegs in every 
row. If you reflect 
the diagram in a 
mirror you will get the only other solution. 

Adam must have possessed 60 sheep, Ben 50, Claude 
40, and Dan 30. If the distributions described had 
taken place, each brother would have then had 45 


517.—* * * * * LA GUERRE. 
The missing words, in their order, are, Apres, par:e, 
spare, spear, rapes, peara, prase, pares, reaps. 








Coveted Cup 
in every 



B 1 ^ 








Oct., 1920. 

by Google 

Original from 


(£« pagt 285.) 


by CjiC 



or LJaixser 

Voi R-1& 

^ Google 


Illustrated by 
A. Gilbert, 

UP out of the Underground 
station and into the warm 
glow of this beautiful after- 
noon came Peter Camp, 
seventy years old and five times over 
a millionaire. He abandoned his third- 
class ticket to the collector, took a 
firmer grip of his stout cane, and off 
he shuffled to cover on Iiis own feet 
the half-mile that lay between him 
and his home. 

On the kerb immediately in front 
of the station's entrance stood two 
three- quarter-grow T n youths, one with 
a bundle of evening newspapers thrust 
under his arm. The other lounged 
against a lamp-post, hands in pockets, 
a half-consumed cigarette dripping 
from his nether lip, a cloth cap much 
the worse for wear on his tangled 
pow ; and, all in all* a youth who 
capably typified the idle poor. 

When Peter Camp appeared among 
the passengers pouring out of the 
station, the youths recognized him 
at once. First they stared in con- 
temptuous silence at the sight of a 
.millionaire using the plebeian Under- 
ground and his own feet, Next their 
stare turned to a glare almost purely 
animal ' as they swnng their faces to 
follow Peter Camp. The light in their 
eyes recalled the glow of consuming 
fire that burns in the eyes of a tiger 

Original from 



A Sequence of Danger 

when, glaring hunger-stricken between the 
bars, he beholds a fair-haired, fat, edible 
little girl toddle past his cage. And when 
Peter Camp was not more than seven feet 
away one of the youths exclaimed, perhaps 
a little louder than he had intended : — 

" I'd like to have that old devil's head in 
a vice. He'd pay up, or crack would go his 

"I'd help ya give the vice a extra twist," 
volunteered the other. " A cool thou 
would do me down to the ground." 

Peter Camp, stopping short, half turned so 
that his back was towards the youths and 
his face to a plate-glass window in which 
were clearly reflected the bloodthirsty, 
money-hungry two. 

Nothing new to Peter Camp to learn that 
his millions were envied. That was a com- 
monplace. Indeed, it seemed to him that 
the multitude, while striving and straining, 
frothing and fighting, to gather in all the 
wealth they could manage to lay hands on, 
still persisted in looking upon it as a personal 
grievance that another had succeeded at 
the very game they themselves played 
with all their might. Long ago this had 
struck Peter Camp as a feeling unworthy 
of a progressive people. These two scraggy 
youths were not angry with him because 
he represented a system of which they 
disapproved. Not at all. Were they not 
as keen at money-making as ever he had 
been ? Yet hear them voice murderous 
hopes against him for no other reason than 
that he had succeeded in doing precisely 
what they were devoting their abilities in 
striving to do ! 

The millionaire glanced at his watch, a 
cheap one on a cheap chain. There was 
still time to drop into his bank before it 
closed. To get to the bank it was necessary 
to repass the paperseller and his pal. 

Peter Camp shot a searching glance at 
the two. Quite unabashed, they glared 
back at him. And just as their glances 
separated the youth of the papers croaked : — 

" Crack-crack ! " 

The other in a hoarse undertone re- 
quested : — 

" Another turn, Teddy." 

" Crack-crack ! " repeated Teddy. 

" That crack-crack alludes to my skull," 
said Peter Camp, grinning a savage grin as 
he hobbled away. 

Entering the bank the millionaire bent 
over the counter and asked of the paying 
clerk : — 

" Can you have five thousand pounds in 
one-pound notes for me before closing time 
to-morrow ? " 

" Certainly, Mr. Camp." 

" Then I'll look in for them at three 
o'clock sharp." 

by Google 

Repassing the two youths, there again 
sounded the " Crack-crack ! " from the 
paper-seller. The other supplemented one 
word : — 

" Splosh ! " 

" That's my brains. I'm sure that splosh 
is my brains," muttered the millionaire as 
he hastened home. 

ACCORDING to his word, Peter Camp 
called at the bank next afternoon at 
three. He brought with him a large 
suit-case, and into tliis five thousand one- 
pound notes were packed. The millionaire 
would himself have carried the bag to his 
house had not the bank manager insisted 
on sending a messenger, and as the million- 
aire and messenger passed the Underground 
station Peter Camp was pleased to behold the 
two lanky youths standing on the self-same 
spot as yesterday. He observed that his 
oncoming seemed to be a source of vitriolly 
amusement to the two. They had found 
a joke that made a common appeal to their 
primitive savagery. The millionaire noticed 
their faces light up, he beheld the tight grin 
on their lips, he saw, even before he could 
hear the sound, those lips shape " Crack- 
crack I " and " Splosh ! " The two were 
showing their teeth, and their eyes glowed 
with predatory fire when he came abreast 
of them. Suddenly the millionaire stopped, 
placing his fingers to his forehead as if a 
puzzling thought had just* flashed upon his 
brain. He glanced at the youths, stood 
irresolute for a minute or so, then shuffling 
across the pavement he asked tr^- 

" Would you two young fellows $eP% to 
do a job for me this evening ? "**'* 

•The grins fell from their faces. They 
were alert and eager. 

" Certainly, sir. We'll come along now, 

" No, no. Not now. I'm not ready for 
you yet. When do you knock oft selling 
papers ? " 

"Any time, sir. There's nothink in 
selling papers. We're r always ready for 
anythink that brings in somethink." 

" Very well. You know my house ? 
Call at eight o'clock this evening ; eight 
o'clock sharp. Come to the front door 
and ring. I'll be about, and let you in." 

And off shuffled the millionaire. Not until 
he was well out of earshot did the one 
ejaculate, in an absent-minded sort of way, 
" Crack-crack ! " and the other " Splosh ! " 

WHEN the lanky paper-seller and his 
pal knocked, the door was opened 
by Peter Camp himself. 
" I'm my own butler," said the millionaire 
in a matter-of-fact tone. "I'm all alone 
in the house to-night. Come in." 


James Barr 


" Would you two young fellow* care to do a job (or me this evening ? 
o steooed in. heavv revolvers. Holding: then 

The two stepped in 

" Follow me , please/' requested the mil- 
lionaire, turning and passing the length of 
the hall. He opened a door to the right 
and entered the kitchen, out of which led 
another passage. Here on a stand stood a 
candte, and this the millionaire lighted, then 
he started down a stair. The y out lis 
followed, and found themselves in a roomy 
cellar, Peter Gimp, having lighted two 
gases and blown out the candle, motioned 
to the far end of a rather long table, 

'* Sit down,* 1 he said. 

The young fellows shuffled across to chairs 
and sat down. The millionaire drew open 
a drawer in the table and took .out, two 


heavy revolvers. Holding them by the 
muzzle he handed one to each of the youths, 
who took them amazed. 

11 Those are yours," said Peter Camp, 

Next the millionaire lifted a large suit-case 
from the floor and placed it upon the table. 
This with impressive deliberation he opened, 
and upending it spilt out on the table a 
huge heap of one-pound notes. He flung a 
handful of these to the Ishmaelites. 

'* Cast an eye on those notes/* he said, 
businesslike. -f They are genuine. So are 

He stirred his hand among the heap until 
it swelled to double its original size. The 
youths barely glanced at the notes. Their 
Original from 



A Sequence of Danger 

eyes were fixed in a dazed sort of fascination 
on their host. 

" By the way," said Peter Camp, glancing 
at the youth nearest him, " by the way, try 
your revolver. It's loaded. Aim at the 
corner over there and pull the trigger. No, 
you do not need to raise the hammer. It's a 
self-cocking weapon. Just aim and pull." 

The youth did as he was bid, and there 
came an explosion more terrifying than 
natural because of the confined space. 
When the din and echoes ceased the million- 
aire said, still in that matter-of-fact way 
of his : — 

" I've experimented. The sound of that 
shot seems big to us who are in this solid 
cellar, but really it does not reach the out- 
side world at ail. Not a soul but us three 
heard that shot." 

He turned, and swinging a chair into 
position sat down, tilted back till his 
shoulders rested against the wall, shoved 
his hands deep into his trousers pockets, 
and hooked his heel over the rung of the 
chair. Then for a telling space he gazed 
now at one now at the other of the two 
youths, who each sat staring back at him, 
their revolvers lying on the table before 
them. At length Peter Camp broke a silence 
which was becoming painful. 

" f f ERE I, old Peter Camp : millionaire 
£""1 and skinflint, sit, as you can see, in 
your power absolutely. On this 
table are five thousand pounds in one-pound 
notes. They are not five-pound Bank of 
England notes, which might possibly be a 
little troublesome to break down into small 
change ; they are one-pound notes, which 
neither raise suspicion nor can be traced. 
Each of you is possessed of a lethal weapon, 
a deadly revolver. There is not a soul in 
this great house but the three of us, neither 
will there be for at least four hours to come. 
In four hours from now you can be miles 
away in the intricate maze of London with 
a first-class chance of dropping out of sight 
beyond fear of discovery. Here lies a for- 
tune for the likes of you — five thousand 
pounds in one-pound notes. Now, what 
about it ? " 

The youths sat tongue-tied. They did 
not allow their eyes to waver for so much 
as one splinter of a second from the million- 
aire's eyes. 

"I'll explain. Yesterday afternoon I 
came out of the Underground. As I passed 
you/' he nodded to the nearest youth, " I 
heard you say how you'd love to have my 
head in a vice. If such splendid luck ever 
came your way you'd make me shell out to 
you untold money. You," he nodded to 
the other, " announced that a thousand 
pounds, you called it a 4 cool thou, ' would 

by V_ 


satisfy you. You will easily recall }*our 
conversation. Afterwards, when I again 
passed by, you entertained me to the sound 
of my skull crack-cracking and my brains 
sploshing. You said * Crack-crack,' you 
said ' Splosh,' Here you find yourselves 
confronted by the blissful situation you 
conjured up in your imagination. What 
use are you going to make of it ? " 

Peter Camp paused, but the listeners 
uttered no word. 

" Does neither of you possess the nerve 
to give the vice-handle one half-turn ? " 

Still not a word from the youths. Peter 
Camp went on. 

" Here I sit helplessly in your power. 
Yesterday afternoon you limited your envy 
to the sum of one thousand pounds ; here 
lies that sum five times over. 1 multiplied 
your one thousand by five to make certain 
you would act as desperately, as ruthlessly 
as it is in you to act. I tell you that to get 
possession of the money lying before your 
eyes you must transmute threats into deeds. 
You must kill. Nothing short of murder 
will do. No one has seen you come in here. 
I am absolutely alone in this house. There 
lies the sum of five thousand pounds in 
serviceable money. Each of you has a 
revolver. My head is in a vice. You have 
hold of the handle of the vice. What 
happens ? " 

Dead silence. 

" Very well. I'll open the interview 
between you, who have me in your power, 
and me, a millionaire, whose head is in a 
vice. You demand five thousand pounds. I 
say, No. I say I will not pass over to you five 
thousand pounds, and I ask you to do your 
worst. Now what are you going to do ? " 

A long silence. 

" Very well. You recognize that I will 
not give you the five thousand, and you feel 
that it is better to get a lesser sum, if by 
taking it you are saved the necessity of 
committing murder. You reason that rather 
than be shot I'll hand over a lesser sum. 
You demand four thousand. Again I say, 
No. Again I say, Do your worst." 

Another minute and nothing said. 

" Very well. We pass on. You demand 
three thousand. I sav, No. Do I hear 
Crack-crack ' ? " 

A pause. 

" Two thousand, you say ? No, / say. 
What ! no Splosh ' ? Why is the vice not 
turning ? One thousand ? No. Five 
hundred ? No." 

Peter Camp withdrew his hands from his 
pockets, stood up, grasped hold of the sides 
of the table, thrust his lean white head 
-towards the two, his neck stretched forth 
like a turtle's. He barked : — 

" Five shillings under compulsion ? Five 


James Barr 


shillings to prevent you turning that vice ? 
Five shillings to save my skull going * Crack- 
crack ' and my brains ' Splosh.' Nevqr I 
Never ! Never ! Not — one — farthing." 

The millionaire glared at the two, his 
wizened old face screwed up into a focus- 
point of defiance. All his being was one 
hard knot of challenge. 

The youths cast not so much as half a 
glance at the pile of notes lying there on the 
table top. The revolvers lay untouched 
within reach of their listless fingers ; the 
lower jaws of the two hung loose, and fear 
and fascination fought for possession of their 

" Not — one — farthing ! " bawled Peter 
Camp, with emphatic deliberation. * Now 
what about it ? " 

THE Ishmaelites turned to gaze at one 
another. If either thought to have 
found strength in the other's presence 
he was mightily mistaken. Instead each 
recognized that the other was as unwilling to 
act, yes, as unable to act, as himself. Each 
of them simultaneously pushed his revolver 
farther away from him, and withdrew his 
hand from the weapon as a visible sign that 
he dissociated himself from all thought of 
crime. Peter Camp, millionaire, let go the 
table and sat down. 

■ It is as I thought. Neither of vou has 
the mettle in you to be a criminal in act ; 
you are criminals only in fancyings. Now 
1 think that when you weigh matters up 
you will realize what fatuous mirages 
fancyings really are. They are nothing but 
miasma created by wasted thoughts. For 
two days you have been feeding upon all 
sorts of delights by fancying you had the 
skull of the old millionaire, Peter Camp, in 
a vice. What time, what thought you 
wasted ! Here everything is arranged 
according to your imaginings : Peter Camp, 
helpless, five thousand pounds waiting merely 
to be picked up, and — you profit not one 
penny piece. Now can you not see the 
difference between fancy and fact ? 

"If either of you had the pluck, the bad 
pluck, mind you, to fulfil your fancyings, 
the certain result would be to land you on 
the platform of a scaffold with a rope noosed 
round your neck. The scaffold is the emin- 
ence the fancyings you have indulged in, 
were they crystallized into deeds, would 
raise you to in the community. How many 
pounds have you there lying before ypu ? " 

The millionaire nodded to indicate the 
handful of notes he had tossed over to them. 
The youths, their fingers trembling, counted. 

" Eighteen, sir." 

" Very well. That cuts up into nine pound* 
each. Here's what I'll do. I want to prove 
to you that nothing counts but deeds. 


Divide those notes between you. Each of 
you take nine pounds. Do what you please 
with four, but put five in the Savings Bank. 
At the end of every three months bring me 
your deposit book, and I'll double all you have 
added to those five pounds. I'll continue 
to do this as long as I choose, but the chances 
are I shall cease the moment you draw any 
money out, unless for a cause I approve. 
Now let yourselves out. Good night." 

Peter Camp, when his two crestfallen but 
somewhat consoled guests had clattered up 
the stairs, began slowly, rather gloatingly, 
to rustle his hands among the heap of one- 
pound notes, and as he did so he chuckled 
a sarcastic, self-satisfied chuckle. This 
chuckle, however, came to a mast abrupt 
full stop. A voice, full of menace and 
ringing clear as a bell, struck definitely upon 
his ear. 

" Stir one muscle, and I'll blow the top 
of your head oft ! " 

Peter Camp did not stir one muscle. He 
froze stiff. He heard footsteps advance, 
he felt a hand run over him searchingly, he 
felt the revolver he had hidden in his breast 

*• I thought as much," said the voice, 
chuckling much as Camp himself a moment 
ago had done. " Have you any other 
weapon secreted , about you ? ' 

The millionaire shook his head. 

** Right 1 Now, Mr. Philosopher, let me 
warn you. If you make one attempt to 
escape or to raise a row 111 shoot you dead. 
You quite understand ? " 
- Quite." 

" 1 am glad you can find tongue. You 
had those two lads scared cold. You 
bluffed them clean out of their wits. I 
enjoyed every word ot your bluff." 

Peter Camp saw a wiry, determined, 
grim little man with a narrow mask over 
his eyes walk to the end of the table where 
the youths had been sitting and pick up 
first one revolver, then the other. He broke 
open the breech of each and spilt the cart- 
ridges out into his left palm. As he con- 
templated these his head nodded wisely. 

"As I guessed. No bullets. The report 
of the shot that young fellow fired did not 
ring true. Besides, if there had have been 
a bullet I'd have been laid out. I thought 
for a moment I was a dead man, for the 
young spark aimed straight at my chest. 
I wonder you did not hear me jump. I was 
hiding in the corner. Your revolver, I take 
it, contains more serviceable ammunition ? " 

Breaking it open, cartridges, fully efficient, 
fell into his palm. 

Again the fellow chuckled, his eyes now 
upon the millionaire. 

*' That was a mighty knowing harangue 
ypu pulled off for the benefit of those two 


2& 4 

A Sequence of Danger 

lads, Shouldn't be a bit surprised if it has 
done 'em a lot of good ; put their feet on 
the straight and narrow, and all that. Of 
course you gave them no inkling that your 
attitude, your calm fortitude in the face of 
sudden death, was all bluff. Let us be thank- 
ful, we who have the interests of morality at 
heart i that the two are no longer here to see 
your bluff called. For, Mr, Philosopher, 

Offer me five shillings not to shdot daylight 
through you ? I say. No, Do I hear vou 
say - Shoot ' ? " 

Peter Camp shook his head. 

+i You offer five hundred pounds ? I say, 
No. Are you going to tell me to do my 
worst 1 " ' 

The millionaire shook his head. 

4i Not you. Instead, you now offer me 

"The millionaire glared at the two, his wizened old 

I'm on the point of calling it hard and sure. 
Sit down/' 

Peter Camp, who was half out of his chair, 
sat down, 

' You remember what you told 'em ? 
No threats could make you part with so 
much as one farthing ! How a man who has 
reached your years, and who knows the world 
as you know it, could bring himself to teli 
such a thumping lie to two children beats 
me, It only shows what sinners men grow 
to be it they are allowed to live long enough/' 

The fellow himself sat down, placed his 
forearms along the table, his revolver 
menacing Peter Camp's chest, and he glared 
at the millionaire, 

'Let me run your proposition the reverse 
way to the way you ran it a moment ago. 

Digitized by Google 

two thousand pounds to go away and leave 
you with a whole skin. I say. No* Am I 
now asked to commit murder ? Recall 
what you vowed to those two boys. Am 
I to shoot ? Speak up/ p 

The millionaire shook his head. 

The burglar grinned. 

" I thought not. Do I hear ycu offer me 
four thousand pounds not to murder you ? 
Yes? I say, No. I say I'm going to 
murder yon unless I get more than four 
thousand pounds. Do you refuse to go 
higher ? Do my ears deceive me when I 
hear yon tell me that compulsion cannot 
compel you to hand over ? * J 

The fellow waggled the muzzle of the 
revolver up and down, covering the 
millionaire's head and chest. 


James Barr 


M Do I hear you say - Swing for it ' ? " 

Peter Camp shook his head, 

" Ah, me I How thankful we two old 
men should be that those boys are not 
present to behold the evaporation of the 
mirage your eloquence caused them to gaze 
admiringly upon. But never mind. Let's 
get on with my little bit of philosophy; 
Ami right in believing you offer me the whole 

millionaire, much as the millionaire had 
glared at the youths. 

" Is it not you who have been fancying ? 
You fancied yourself a hero. You fancied 
you would allow yourself to be shot dead 
rather than anyone should take by force 
from you so much as one farthing. On a 
sudden you find yourself face to face with 
facts, not fancies, A palpable fact, a mighty 

(ace sciewed up into a focus- point of defiance." 

five thousand pounds lying there/' he nodded 
to the heap, " the whole five thousand not 
to kiU you ? " 

" You are right in so believing/* admitted 
the millionaire, 

M I fancied as much* My fancying?*, you 
see, are facts. The five thousand is mine* 
1 have possession of what I came here to 
get, I seldcm fail, I learned, never you mind 
how, that you were drawing out a big sum in 
notes from your bank. I saw a messenger 
from the bank carry this suit-case here, 
and 1 broke in and secreted mvself, resolving 
to get a firm grip on the money before 
to-morrow's dawn. You have made my job 
dead easy/' 

The burglar got to his feet. He placed 
his palms on the table and glared at the 

Digitized by VjOOQ IC 

grim fact — me. Now what do your feme rings 
amount to ? They amount to nothing but 
breath. For before you stands a man, a 
burglar, a criminal dyed in the wool, who, 
sooner than forego one single penny of 
those five thousand pounds scattered here 
on the table, would joyfully turn mur- 
derer and shoot you as full of holes as a 
sieve , or alternatively aUow himself to be 
shot to the likeness of a sieve. I would 
fight to the death. I would kill or be killed," 

" Stir one muscle, and I'll blow the top 
of your head off ! * J 

The identical words he himself had used 
to the millionaire smote with harsh violence 
upon the ear of Burglar Jim Stark, and they 
froze him as solid as they had frozen Peter 
Camp* The command was not the only 



A Sequence of Danger 

evidence of the presence behind him of 
someone with a weapon in his hand, for 
Stark felt the muzzle of a revolver pressing 
hard against the back of his skull and 
scoring cruelly into his scalp. A short 
silence and again the voice : — 

" Shove your gun along the table away 
from you." 

With the back of his fingers Burglar Jim 
Stark flicked the weapon out of his reach. 

44 Now, hands behind." 

Next instant Jim Stark stood with his 
wrists handcuffed behind him, then out in 
front of him stepped Detective Barker. 
Barker had too much consideration for the 
feelings of a man, even though he well knew 
that man to be a really dangerous criminal, 
to allow himself any cheap glory by mention 
of fighting to the death, killing or being 
killed, but he could not help a tiny smile 
trom playing round his lips. This Burglar 
Jim Stark did not fail to notice. 

" You took me off my guard," said the 
burglar, briskly. 

** No more than you took Mr. Camp," 
replied the detective. 

" What devil chance brought you here ? " 
demanded the burglar. 

" It was chance, nothing more, nothing 
less, I caught sight of you following some- 
one. I followed you. I saw you let your- 
self into this house, and I took the liberty 
of following your example." 

" Trust a 'tec to follow a bad example," 
growled the fellow. 

14 I'll continue to live up to the character 
by following you to the station," retorted 

Peter Camp, millionaire, arose and stood 
rather unsteadily, his face whiter than ever, 
for the strain of the last fifteen minutes had 
been too much for such an old man. He 
held out a trembling right hand for the 
detective to take. 

" These notes are yours," he said, motioning 
towards the five thousand, less eighteen, on 
the table. " Thank Heaven, there's one man 
among us who does not vapour fancyings ; 
one man who is ready to carry out his word 
to the last letter. Thank Heaven, there's 
one man among us who really holds the 
cards he says he holds. Thank Heaven, 
there's one among us who does not need to 

Then the old man hobbled upstairs to his 

*HREE hours later Detective Barker sat 
meditatively smoking his pipe. By 
him, reading a newspaper, was his 

especial chpm, Detective Pat Hanrahan. 
Suddenly Barker broke the silence. 

" Pat," he said, in an awed sort of whisper, 
*'* Pat, you're an Irishman. Be my Father 

'* I'm listening;" said Hanrahan, putting 
down the newspaper. 

" Pat, it may do my nerves good to 
confess, and my nerves are jumpy to-night. 
Pat, I did the great fool act of my life this 
evening. I arrested Stark." 

" Stark ? Jim Stark, the burglar ? That 
rattlesnake ? You arrested him single- 
handed ? That was no fool act, I'll lay my 
boots on it ! " 

" Pat, when I called upon Stark to stand 
he had his fingers on his gun. You know 
the deadly fight he put up two years ago 
when he tore himself away from four police- 
men ? Teeple s still a cripple from that 

" Yes, and two others, Foster and Pitt, 
have never rightly got over the bullets 
handed out to them by Stark on that 
occasion, either." 

" Well, Pat, we've been on the look-out 
for him ever since, as you know, and I 
arrested him all on my own. He had his 
fingers on his gun. It lay before him on 
the table. I called on him to shove the 
gun out of his reach and to give me his 
hands behind his back to be handcuffed. 
He obeyed." 

" You never did lack nerve, Barker. Of 
course you had the drop on him ? " 

" That's where the great fool act comes 
in. As I shoved my revolver against 
Stark's head and called on him to hands up, 
at a flash I remembered that my gun was 
not loaded. I'd been showing it to some 
boy scouts, and following my rule, I took 
the precaution of emptying it of cartridges. 
Then for the first time in my detective career 
I forgot. I forgot to reload. The cart- 
ridges that should have been in my revolver 
were in my coat pocket. Just as I shoved 
my gun against Stark and announced I'd 
blow his head off if he resisted, the know- 
ledge that my weapon was harmless struck 
me such a blow that I came near to pitching 
over on my face. If Stark had caught sight 
of me then I'd be this moment a dead 

" The bluff came off ? " 

Barker, nodding, withdrew his pipe from 
his mouth and contemplated it dreamy- 

'Say, Pat," he asked, "has my hair 
turned white ? No ? Well, it will before 
to-morrow dawns/* 

by Google 

Original from 

2S ? 

.■..;-:■■, . v-./.-. ■■• , 

^ QT Ra ymond 

(Author of m Unccmorrd Celebrities ," ric.) 

Illustrated Ly E. T, Reed. 

II KE many other institutions, the 
Old Bailey has seen a great deal 
J of change during the last twenty 

There used to be a grim appropriateness 
about the chief criminal court of London, 
It looked its name and its reputation. 
Approaching it from the north, the first 
impression was of the gloomy and massive 
walls ot Newgate, festooned in gigantic 
fetters, dark and minatory, frowning on the 
busy modem street, reminders of the old 
stern days when droves of criminals passed 
through its ponderous gates on their last 
journey. Architecturally, I have heard, it 
was an excellent piece of work from every 
point of view ; at any rate, there could 
hardly be a building more faithfully pro- 
claiming its purpose or setting forth more 
mercilessly the idea of % * All hope abandon, 
ye who enter here," The famous prison of 
Venice, reached through the Bridge of Sighs, 
is festive in comparison. 

Passing this gloomy pile, you came to a 
shabby doorway exhaling that atmosphere 
of stale breath^ heated clothing, and damp 
umbrellas which is characteristic of all places 
where British justice is administered. The 
court in which so many famous criminals 
have come by their deserts might be de- 
scribed as impressive without dignity. It 
was commonly designed, commonly fur- 
nished, dark, pokey and inconvenient, and 
so saturated with evil association that one 
could well imagine the judge taking a 
specially hot bath when he went home. To 
the dinginess of the whole one splash of vivid 


colour gave crude relief — the scarlet of his 
lordship's robes and the blues and yellows of 
the nosegays lying before him. 

But even flowers at the Old Bailey have 
sinister associations. They are reminiscent 
of the days when the deadly " jail fever ' J 
used often to rush straight from the gaunt 
and yellow wretch in the dock to the rosy 
and portly lawyer on the Bench, so that my 
lord died even before the law, savagely 
expeditious as it was in those days, had had 
time to execute his judgment on the prisoner. 
As a feeble kind of barrage against such 
infection, flowers and sweet -smelling herbs 
were strewn between the Bench and the 
prisoner at the bar, and the nosegays are 
the modern representative of this primitive 
sanitary device, 

A horrible place was the Old Bailey as it 
still existed in the first decade of this century, 
and its atmosphere of doom, accentuated by 
the croaking of the old usher, who used to 
swear the jury as if be were repeating some 
unholy incantation, must have struck a chill 
to the heart of the most confident criminal. 

To-day all that is changed, and the Old 
Bailey is spick and span almost to the point 
of jauntiness. But it is, to a sensitive mind, 
perhaps even more inhuman than its shabby 
predecessor ; it suggests the widening gulf 
between those who sin and those who plead 
and jvidge. Old Bailey lawyers of the past 
were often coarse and sometimes brutal, but 
they were not aloof. They took a certain 
personal interest in the people they defended j 
congratulated them in human fashion when 
they got off, and even wore mourning rings 



Counsel for the Prisoner 

cultivated to the utmost the 
powers of their leathern lungs. 

The late Sir Charles Mathews, 
one of the mast deadly of great 
Old Bailey counsel , was a deli- 
cate little man with a curiously 
tired voice tending to drop at 
every tenth word, and it was 
he who, to a large extent, in- 
augurated the quieter fashion 
of to-day. But some of his 
predecessors to a great extent 
relied for their verdicts on terri- 
fying loudness of tone ; they 
roared like all the bulls of 
Bashan. A newly - appointed 

The Old Bailey as it was. 

for them when the jury refused 
to acquit. To-day the Old 
Bailey Bar, if not more business- 
like, is certainly less intimate. 

It is less intimate all round. 
Among the lawyers composing 
it there is now little of the 
sense of being a close corpora- 
tion, little of the rough jollity 
and " snugness " of the old 
days, A good many men go 
eastward after their ' call *' 
because they can generally 
reckon on some kind of brief at 
some kind of fee, and there is 
always the chance of getting 
into the public eye. But /ew take to the 
Old Bailey with the idea of sticking to it* 
The way of the Judge in " Trial by Jury," by 
whose efforts 

Many a burglar was restored 
To his friends and his relations^ 

is not the approved modern path to legal 
eminence. The day of the great specialized 
criminal lawyer is gone. At one time the 
Bench was largely recruited from the ranks 
of famous advocates at the Central Criminal 
Court. Without going back to Jeffreys, 
who rose from the Old Bailey to the Wool- 
sack, we have still living an ex-Chancellor, 
Lord Halshury, who was one of a group of 
brilliant barristers Jiving on criminal briefs. 
Lord Brampton, as Mr, Henry Hawkins, was 
chiefly known as a criminal lawyer ; and 
there were others who almost looked on the 
neighbouring Newgate as a mediaeval Baron 
might have done on his deer park, They 
were a mighty race, given to florid eloquence 
and ingenious cavil, terrors to witnesses and 
even sometimes to judges, and many of them 

Digitized by GoOglc 

The Old Bailey to-day 

judge was once startled, during his first Old 
Bailey sitting, by a dreadful noise, lf What's 
that ? " he exclaimed. "Is it thunder ? " 

"No, m'lud ; only Mr. Sleigh making £n 
application in the next court/* was the reply. 

Montagu Williams was a very typical 
barrister of the old time ; it was his boast 
that in twenty-four years he had defended 
more distinguished criminals than any other 
man ; he was ° in " the Hatton Garden 
murder, the Clerkenwell explosions, the case 
of Mine. Rachel, the Benson turf frauds, 
and the Penge, Peace, and Lefroy murders, 
He used to tell many stories of the grim jests 
played by one counsel on another. Thus 
Best, who defended the prisoner in the 
Plaistow Marshes murder, was just rising to 
give his speech to the jury when he received 
a large black-edged and black-sealed enve- 
lope. When opened it was found to contain 
black gloves and a hat-band — mourning in 
advance sent him by Hawkins, who had 
betted on a conviction. The very chaplains 
were infected with this ghoulish humour. 
One, just aitsr adding his " Amen " to the 


£. T. Raymond 

death sentence, 
turned to Williams, 
who had prosecuted, 
and said, " Hallo, 
Williams , you've 
bagged your man ! Jl 

This spirit is quite 
extinct, but so also is 
the peculiar glory of 
the Old Bailey Bar. 
The latter fact is 
easily explained. The 
business of defending 
criminals is no longer 
lucrative according to 
modern standards. A 
burglar of to-day 
may be able to afford 
something more than 
a burglar of the 'six- 
ties, but not very 
much ; crime, after 
oil, does not permit of 
syndication beyond a 
certain extent, and 
the best-managed 
thieves* kitchen does 
not accumulate much 
in the way of a re- 
serve fund. On the 
other hand, with the 
growth of big busi- 
nesses, there is hardly 
a limit to ., be placed 
on the money that 
great firms are willing 
to pay for the- best 
that can be had in 
the way of legal aid. 

Thus the whole out- 
Igok of lawyers has 
changed. In the last 
half of the nineteenth 
century it was pos- 
sible to pick up a 
very good living at 
the Old Bailey, and 
it was not easy to 
pick up more than a 
good living at the 
Law Courts, To-day 
the prospects of the 
first career remain 
much what they were, 
while famous K,C.'e 
can get enormous fees 
from big commercial 
and society suitors. 
Sir John Simon was 
offered as much as 
seven thousand 
pounds to appear in 
a single case* 

It is therefore 





/ Original from 



natural enough that 
criminal practice has 
come to be regarded 
mainly as a stepping* 
stone to better and 
to higher things ; a 
reputation made at 
the Old Bailey is 
valuable chiefly for 
what it leads to. 
Two results follow. 
The Central Criminal 
Court has now few 
particular stars of its 
own, and the style 
adopted by beginners 
is far quieter and 
more ordinary than 
was once the case ; 
it is a general pur- 
poses style, and not 
specially designed to 
mesmerize the com* 
mon juryman. When 
the magic of words 
is badly wanted, and 
can be paid for at 
fancy rates, a fashion* 
able K.C. is apt to be 
imported from out- 

Thus Sir J ohn 
Simon, whose first be- 
ginnings were at the 
criminal bar, early 
left burglars for com- 
pany directors, who 
could pav very much 
better. But the Old 
Bailey has called him 
back from time to 
time, both as prose- 
cutor and as counsel 
for the defence ; and 
in the Malcolm case, 
in which the plea of 
the " unwritten law " 
was raised, he was 
briefed at enormous 
cost. The expense of 
this most costly of 
counsel generally jus- 
tifies itself. Sir John 
Simon is not often 
heard in a criminal 
court, and the con- 
stant jingle of the 
guinea— or rather 
thousand guineas — 
has so softened his 
manner that it is 
often forgotten that 
he can be, when he 
likes, a very terrible 


Counsel for the Prisoner 

cross -examiner ; on one occasion he reduced a 
prisoner to inarticulate sobs. But ordinarily 
his chief weapon is a deadly suavity, an 
insinuating and plausible way, like that of 
the boa-constrictor hypnotizing the rabbit. 

Quite different in 
method is the other 
great King's Counsel 
who is occasionally 
tempted by a huge 
fee to the Old Baiicy. 
Sir Edward Carson is 
a terrible prosecutor; ' 
he learned Ids busi- 
ness in Ireland, where 
legal manners are 
sterner than here, 
and, as he long went 
about in fear of his 
life from desperadoes, 
it was natural that 
he should be bitter 
when he got one in 
the dock before him. 
But his fame as 
counsel for the de- 
fence is hardly less 
high in the legal 
profession. " I would 
rather be defended 
by Ted Carson when 
I was wrong than by 
any other man when 
I was right," was the 
opinion of a high 
authority. At a Bar 
mess some famous 
legal men were dis- 
cussing Sir Edward and his great rival of 
the moment. The debate was conclude^ by 
an admirer thus : "I should be ready to 
hunt tigers with Carson ; I wouldn't hunt 
cats with the other/ 1 

; Sir Edward has always carefully preserved 
his rich brogue, but it is never heard to such 
advantage as in a Court of Justice, and is 
especially luscious when he leans forward, 
with his hungry, hatchet face drawn in every 
muscle with the kind of excitement one sees 
on a greyhound straining at the leash, to 
demolish a hostile witness. The thing has 
a most curious effect. Here are the very 
tones of the music-hall Irishman, and the 
purport is so grim. It is as if you were to 
hear Mr # George Robey declaiming the 
Athanasian Creed. 

Sir Edward has a trick of repeating the 
word (i any " — which he pronounces 
" Annie " — with such emphasis that the 
most good-natured juryman feels that he 
must convict, or recommend that the chief 
witness for the prosecution shall be pro- 
ceeded against for perjury, as the case may 
be, It is a liberal education for any young 

barrister who wants to learn the elements of 
his business to listen to the great counsel 
laying down the law as to what should hap- 
pen to Annie man, or for that matter Annie 
woman, who in Annie circumstances, without 

Annie justification, or 
being in Annie fear of 
Annie serious injury 
to himself f or Annie 
one belonging to him, 
commits Annie vio- 
lence against, or in- 
flicts An nie in j ury 
on, Annie other man. 
Apart from the con- 
stancy of his accent, 
Sir Edward has the 
most flexible voice 
imaginable, and can 
pass at will from 
thunder-tones to a 
not less menacing 
calm, or from a 
cynical drawl to a 
deadly hiss. Once he 
even burst into tears 
as the result of his 
own eloquence, 

" Tears, idle tears " 
are not, however, 
much in his line ; and 
Annie man who pro- 
vokes them must be 
prepared to pay Annie 
sum in reason (or even 
out of it) for the pri- 
vilege. Sir Edward 
once threw back a 
brief marked five hundred guineas ; in. two 
hours it returned to his office marked a 
thousand ; he told his clerk he would not 
go into court under fifteen hundred. The 
fifteen hundred came within an hour, and 
he had to go. If Anniebody is in Annie 
trouble, and thinks Sir Edward Carson will 
be sure to get him out, he had better first 
look into his bank-book and see if he has 
Annie considerable balance* A few odd 
guineas will not do. 

Neither will they suffice to set in motion 
that fine piece of forensic machinery known 
as Sir Edward Marshall Hall, K.C. Of bar- 
risters of high note Sir Edward is perhaps 
the most frequently heard at the Old Bailey, 
where Mr. Gill, K«C. P who sprang into fame 
as a cross-examiner by standing up to the 
late Sir Charles Russell and beating him, is 
now comparatively seldom seen. The Mar- 
shall Hall manner is rather old-fashioned ; 
he is the only big man at the Bar who goes 
in for the florid Buzfuz style—" Chops, gentle- 
men t and, good heavens f tomato sauce,'* 
"designing villainy/ 1 "revolting heartless* 
hg&s/' and the rest cf it, He works tremeu- 




E> T. Raymond 


dously hard for any interesting murderer 
whose case he has taken up, and generally 
attacks the newspapers for having printed, 
as newspapers will, " column after column — 
and in every edition, gentlemen," facts 
which might conceivably be prejudicial to 
his injured client. 

Men of fastidious taste may be moved to 
a smile occasionally by some blaze of elo- 
quence, but it is the result that counts, and 
Sir Edward has secured some sensational 
acquittals. The rather antique expansion of 
his style might suggest to anybody who read 
a speech of his in print a somewhat elderly 
gentleman with forked %vhiskers ; he looks, 
in fac£, almost unnaturally young, and has 
the fine features of a Greek god. " There's 
only one thing against Marshall Hall," said 
a crusty old barrister when he had secured an 
acquittal in the Camden Town murder trial 
some years ago ; " he's too handsome for a 
serious profession ." 

A little reminiscent of Sir Edward is 
another well-known criminal lawyer — Sir 
Ernest Wild, who swam into politics last 
election asa" Hang- the- Kaiser " enthusiast. 
He made, or rather 
consolidated, his 
reputation by his bril- 
liant defence of the 
man Gardiner, twice 
tried for what was 

called the Peasenhall 
mystery. He was 
then opposed to Mr, 
Dickens J K.C., and 
there could have been 
no greater contrast 
than between the 
gravely responsible 
style of the prose* 
cutor and the fiery 
energy of the counsel 
for the defence. Sir 
Ernest Wild is pos- 
sibly not a great 
lawyer, but it is 
equally certain that 
he has many of the 
qualities of a very 
great advocate, For 

may be realized by sheer audacity and per* 
tinacious worrying of witnesses, judge, and 
jury, he can hardly be beaten. 

Such are a few of the men who may be a 
very present help in time of trouble to those 
who can afford the luxury of fees ranging 
from the gigantic to the considerable. What 





a forlorn hope, that 

by LiOOglC 

of the men who appear for the Crown ? 

The position of prosecutor in this country 
does not lend itself to the illustration of the 
more showy order of talent* On the Conti- 
nent it is the business of the juge d'msttuction 
to be immensely impressive and eloquent. 
He draws up an accusation as readable as a 
novel, and, having depicted in the most 
glowing colours the alleged deed of the 
accused, breaks off to tell the man's story 
in his own words, telling it so baldly that the 
jury's inclination is straightway to guillotine 
him for a blockhead as well as a scoundrel. 

But an English prosecutor has to be most 
scrupulously fair ; he has always the judge 
a little inclined to be against him ; and his 
best weapon is a tongue of ice speaking for a 
mind of frozen impartiality. The ice may be 
creamy in texture, like that of Sir Archibald 
Bodkin, who looks like a churchwarden with 
some ambitions for the pulpit, and puts the 
most deadly suggestions in a bland and sooth- 
ing v